Honour and Pride:Book II The Eight Phases
by Beer-monster
Summary: Beginning their quest, Ranma and Ryoga have made it to China. But the mountains of China hold many secrets, which may possess both blessings and curses for Ranma.
1. The Wind of the Willow

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**_Honour And Pride_**

By Beer-Monster

Book II: The Eight Phases.

_Chapter One: The Wind Of The Willows_

_The Journey of a thousand miles,_

_Begins with __the first step. **Lao Tsu.**_

The wind howled like a banshee. The sky was dark and grey, the sun swallowed by a sea of thick, black clouds. Rain and melting snow dripped and dribbled from the trees, small droplets clinging in dewy beads to the fine tips of the conifers finger-like leaves. The angry gusts rustled the evergreens, making them sway as if in blustering mockery of the other trees whose boughs had long since been stripped by winter's icy touch.

The irate, redhead brushed another conifer branch aside as it jutted in her path like a curious feeler. Her shoes squelched as they trudged through the wet dirt, slush and snowmelt surging around her ankles and soaking her feet. One hand shivered and trembled as it held the ties of her thick coat in white, clammy fist, pulling it closer around her small form. The other hand returned to the meagre warmth offered by her pocket. 

The back of the heavy, quilted jacket was embroidered with two characters; the Japanese Kanji similar enough to the ancestor Chinese for any of the locals to determine its meaning. They stood for 'Wild horse'.

Ranma was freezing. 

In his time spent with the Tendos he had forgotten the harshness of travel, and he had certainly forgotten the coldness. The again he never had gone wandering through northwestern China in the depths of winter. Her entire body was numb with the cold, her bones felt encased in ice, and she could not even feel her toes. Her breath clouded in misty vapour before her, and as she inhaled she seemed to suck in a lungful of ice, the bitter air burning in her chest. The wind was biting, snapping at her red face and chapping lips, freezing the sweat that formed on her head from the effort of carrying two heaving packs.

The one source of heat came from the small, black piglet that shuddered beneath her coat, clamped against beneath large breasts by the her arm as it held the jacket closed. Ryoga snorted and squirmed, jabbing her with his small hooves.  

_What a jerk!_ Ranma thought angrily. _He gets to stay all warm and cosy inside my jacket, while I have to face the elements and carry his bloody luggage. But on the bright side at least his nosebleed had stopped, meaning she no longer had to hold two fingers over his haemorrhaging nostrils._

Another vehicle passed along the dirt caked road, a small, simple white van. Its spinning wheels kicked up a fine spray of filthy water, which splattered on her face. Grumbling she raised her hand from her pocket and wiped the brown liquid from her face and then clawed away the damp, red bangs that clung wetly to her brow. She had entertained the thought of using the seductive appeal of her cursed form to attract a driver and convince him to give them a lift, she doubted that wet, dirty and cold was a flattering look for her. Besides she had no way to ask such help. Ryoga had done all the talking, but that did not help right then as pigs made poor translators.

Ranma had been surprised by the lost boy's grasp of languages, and had watched awe-struck as he had spoke fluently with the shopkeepers and other locals they had met. Seeing her shock, Ryoga had of course rubbed her nose in it, claiming that he also spoke excellent English, Spanish and Arabic. Ranma did not doubt him; he probably knew how to say, " Where the hell am I?" and " Which way to the Tendo dojo?" in Swahili too. 

Obviously being completely without a sense of direction had its fringe benefits as well as pitfalls. Their arrival here was an example of both.

It had been a week since they had left Nerima together, and they had arrived in China three days ago. 

At least she guessed three days ago. Travelling with Ryoga it was difficult to tell. She had let him lead once they left Tokyo, barely noticing the landscapes or the towns they passed. It was when the signs had become incomprehensible and the people had started speaking in another language that she realised they were in China. She could not recall passing the ocean; the only expanse of water was a small stream that was easily jumped over. Yet the thousand of bikes in the towns and skinned dogs in the butchers shop had only confirmed her suspicions. 

A discreet inquiry, ruined by Ryoga screaming for directions at all who passed, had revealed that they were in China's Si Chuan province. In two days walking they had come cross-country from the Pacific Ocean and Japan, just as Ranma had hoped.     

Not willing to rack her brains pondering the meta-physics of the Ryoga phenomenon, she shrugged.

 _Beats swimming, she thought. _

A sudden sharp gust of wind chilled her spine and she pulled her coat around herself tighter. P-Chan squirmed and snorted in protest at the sudden pressure, but Ranma ignored him. She squinted through the winds and focussed ahead, her eyes fixed upon the mountains that loomed ahead, with their gigantic presence and majesty dominating the horizon.

Amongst those rocky heights and sweeping plateaus lay their destination. Mount Emei, its snow-feathered peaks hidden behind a sea of grey clouds. The foothills of that natural spire were said to be the home of many great and beautiful temples, Buddhist and Taoist faiths living side-by-side in harmony with nature.

Or so had said the old man who had owned the grocery store in the last town. Recognising them as Japanese he had assumed them to be tourists and advised that they visit the mountain and it's temples for their great beauty and history.  Ranma had not been too interested, but Ryoga had insisted they go, declaring that they "might as well take a look since they had not anywhere else to go nor anything else planned." The pigtailed youth had suspected his companion was trying to get rid of him by avoiding the challenges and Martial arts that he yearned for. But Ranma had to admit that Ryoga was right, that they had no other plans or any destination in mind. 

Besides, it was strangely comforting to be heading somewhere definite instead of the Russian roulette that came from following the directionless fighter.

Glancing up at the sky Ranma regarded the grey clouds carefully. The mountain and the town at its base were still miles away. She could continue walking, yet she was so tired. Her legs ached, and body was numb, her arms feeling like dead, frozen weights. It would be best for her to rest a while, and to heat up some water. This fragile body seemed to retain no heat, and she could also get that lazy pig to carry his own pack.

Moving from the road she headed into the dense wood that's surrounded her. Feeling glad of the shelter from the biting winds provided by the trees. Finding a small clearing, amongst the thick forest she set her burdens down. She then sighed with relief, stretching and rotating shoulders that burned with the long-carried weight of the two packs. 

Reaching under her coat she pulled the pig from his hideaway, and flung him unceremoniously to the ground. P-Chan bounced twice on the damp, soil before landing upside down, his trotters waving frantically in the air. After righting himself the piglet snorted indignantly and launched itself at Ranma's ankle. The redhead squawked in pain as the angry, black piglet attached itself to his foot with its fangs. After a series of frenzied hops, Ranma managed to extract P-Chan's grip, sending the piglet flying across the clearing with a kick.

"What was that for you crazy hog?" she protested.

An irritated verse of oinks and bwees was his reply, as the pig bounced on its little legs in a fit of restless rage.

Ranma ignored his cursed companions anger, although he was confused with how Ryoga had managed to give him the 'bird' with his inflexible hooves, instead setting herself to gathering sticks and twigs, for kindling. She pulled a packet of firelighters from Ryoga's bag, breaking the grey bricks and setting them into a tumbled pile, then knelt onto all fours, bending to let the flames from her small, cheap cigarette lighter dance over the firelighters. After several attempts, her thumb rubbed raw from grinding the lighter's wheel, a small fire blazed with merry, orange light.

She grimaced while returning to Ryoga's pack, noticing the dampness of the ground had soaked through the knees of her black pants, and stained them with its dirt. Ranma rummaged through the sack and pulled out a bottle of water, pouring the contents into a small pot and setting it on the fire to boil, she then turned to the piglet.

"You can use the water first P-brain, I'm fed up with having to carry your pork butt."

P-Chan responded with a series of angry noises, but Ranma talked over them. "I'm gonna see if the trees kept any of the wood dry enough to use as kindling. Might as well try to save on firelighters." She then fixed the small pig with a firm glare. 

"You'd better save me some of that water though, or I'll sell you to the next butchers' shop!" 

Spinning on her heel she stomped off into in to the shadows. 

The pot rattled as steam wafted from the top. P-Chan shuffled over to the flames, and with practised but cautious tugs, inched the pot little by little of the flames. Then after several attempts and ingenuity beyond that of his porcine form he managed to tip a steaming surge of the hot liquid over his head. He grimaced in pain as the hot water scolded his skin, but it was lost in the blurring metamorphosis of his growing form.

Now human again, Ryoga shivered as the icy winds blasted his slick and naked body. Teeth chattering, he rushed over to his pack, retaining a crouched posture with hands cupped over his groin in an empty but instinctual gesture of modesty. Rummaging through its contents he withdrew a set of dry but rumpled clothes. He began pulling them on swiftly, throwing himself into his boxers and black pants in an urgent effort to shield himself from winter's caress. Not wanting to walk barefoot on the wet and muddy ground any longer, his shoes were next, followed by the binding around his calves. Yet' as he attempted to don a black T-shirt and his customary coarse, yellow jerkin, furious gusts snatched the garments from his grip and carried them across the clearing and into the darkness beneath the crowded trees. Biting back a series of curses and somehow knowing this was all Ranma's fault, he trudged after it. 

He bent to seize his clothes in his left fist, his weight sinking forward onto his front foot, only for the ground to give way beneath the stress, sending him staggering forwards. He wind milled his arms in an attempt to keep his balance, yet his feet could find no purchase in the wet mud. Slipping forwards he grasped vainly and the surrounding trees, until the earth vanished beneath his feet. 

A momentary feeling of weightlessness was accompanied by his own, shocked, cry, and the cracking of breaking wood, then came a frightened scream. He dimly noticed that the second voice was not his own, before lights flashed before his eyes and darkness rolled in.

He awoke with a start, his body jerking him into consciousness, motes of light swirling across his eyes. He shook his head to clear them from his vision, but its did not clear the numbness from his brain which felt stuffed with cotton. Through the haze he became aware of rapid hard impacts jarring his shoulders.

"Get off me you pervert! " A panicked and extremely angry voice shrieked in a flurry of syllables he recognised to be Chinese. Digging his hands into the dirt beneath his shoulders Ryoga pushed himself up and glanced downwards. His   green eyes locked with a pair of rage-filled, jade orbs. 

And then from beneath him, a knee slammed hard into his crotch.

Eyes wide and mouth falling slack, he managed a small, pained croak from the back of his throat. Muscles locked by pain, he barely managed to roll over to his side, before he curled into to a huddled ball, body coiling defensively around his sore groin, lances of pain shooting from his balls through his entire frame. 

His attacker did not stop there. Pulling themselves up, they began planting outraged kicks and stamps to his ribs and flanks but Ryoga barely noticed the blows, his body toughened beyond such hits and his mind distracted by other much larger pains.

Fortunately years of vengeance driven training came instinctively to his rescue. Moving his hands from their cupped grasp of his injured manhood, he seized one of the attacker's leg and thrust it pack towards its owner. Spinning on his back he swung his leg in a vicious arc that swept his their legs from beneath them. Combined with the force of his push the assailant flew through the air. 

His opponent was no novice either and quickly controlled their landing, breaking the fall with a loud slap and rolling to their feet into a fighting stance. Ryoga rose to his own guard on bowed, wobbling legs, mixed anger at himself for being caught out by that attack, and rage at the perpetrator for employing such a cowardly tactic, arose in him. Seizing onto that anger, he quashed the remaining pain in his groin and balled his hands into fists.

Fangs bared, he shot a baleful glance at his opponent, and felt his anger shrink as it was swamped by a horde of new emotions: embarrassment, panic, puzzlement and the empty sensation of not knowing what to do next. But then he was never good with girls.

Soft, golden bangs were feathered across a pair of bright, emerald eyes still narrowed with hostility. Her lips were set in an angry frown, her face slightly flushed through rage. Her clothes were a miss-matched mix of modern and traditional, a pair of snug blue jeans and trainers contrasting with the thick, Chinese shirt and thin sleeveless robe. The robe was the most striking of the ensemble; it was long, hanging down to her calves, and made of a fine blue material, embroidered with an elaborate design in gilded threads, depicting what he thought was a phoenix. She glared at him vehemently, her expression twisting as he dropped his stance.  

" What's wrong pervert, realise your mistake? " She sneered.

"I'm not a pervert," he yelled in retort.

The girl blinked rapidly, her face screwing up and her brows furrowing in an expression of shock and puzzlement. Ryoga mentally kicked himself as he realised that he had voiced his protest in Japanese. Calming himself he repeated in Mandarin.

"I said I'm not a…"

"I understood you the first time." the girl broke in. " But I'm still not stupid enough to believe it."

This time Ryoga felt his shock, his mouth dropping and eyebrows crawling beneath his bandana. 

"You speak Japanese?" He gasped. Her firm voice still carried a slight accent, yet her speech was fluid nonetheless.

"Yes I speak Japanese. But this is hardly the time for a comparative languages debate. I am supposed to be dealing out your just punishment for indecently assaulting me. Now fight!" She spat the last part at him, stamping her foot angrily.

"But you're a girl," he spluttered helplessly. The one thing he was worse at than talking with girls was talking with angry girls.

"Of course I'm a girl. Unless you think you were groping a man, in which case you would be a real pervert." The woman mocked, with a derisive smirk.

Ryoga's face lit to cherry red, as he began babbling embarrassed and enraged protests: his last sentence being the only intelligible one. " I'm not a pervert, it was an accident."

"So you _accidentally_ manhandled me while half naked?" she asked dryly.

Ryoga glanced down at himself, and upon talking in the sight of his shirtless, dirt-smeared torso, immediately yelped loudly in total mortification. He felt suffused with heat as his whole body succumbed to a bright blush. Immediately he started and tried to cover himself with crossed arms, until he realised how stupid a man would look doing that and gazed at the grassy earth, avoiding the girls probing glare. Finally he conquered his shame by relying on a more familiar emotion; rage.

"Damn it. It was an accident. Ranma's the pervert not me. Damn him. This is all his fault." Cursing his rival calmed him a little as it always did. Supposition of guilt was a wonderful thing.

"Yeah, I'm sure this 'Ranma' forced you onto me against your will." his accuser snorted.

"It was an accident." Ryoga cried. "I fell down the bank." Gesturing with a finger he indicated the mounded wall of grass and root entwined earth. The girl gave a dry bark of a laugh that held no humour.

"Ha. You expect me to believe that." she smiled mockingly as her gaze traced the line to the spot indicated by his finger. The smirk shrunk and then vanished from her lips and her eyes widened as she saw the trails of dishevelled earth and the path of broken tree branches.

"Oh!" she managed after a while.

Ryoga watched as she moved across the clearing to his landing spot. Bending down she gathered up his now mud-caked jerkin and reached upwards to retrieve his dark tee shirt from where it dangled from an exposed root. She did not turn to look at him until she was done, when she hastily threw the articles in his direction. He snatched them out of the air effortlessly but was too dumbfounded to thank her. He quickly pulled them over his head in a rush to cover himself from her gaze.

She broke the silence.

"Um…err…Sorry about that. A girl can't be too careful you know" She trailed off into a patch of nervous laughter. Not knowing what else to do Ryoga joined her, shyly rubbing the back of his head.

"Oh that's okay…. It did look kind of look bad."

The girl smiled slightly at his words, "And sorry about the low blow, too."

This time Ryoga just nodded not meeting her eyes. It was much harder for any man to forgive a whack to the wedding tackle. Instead he focussed his attention on furiously brushing some of the dirt from his clothes. But the mud was wet, and had burrowed itself deep into the fabric.

"Let me take you into the town and pay to get that washed." his former attacker said after observing his actions. "My family has some influence in this district, I should be able to get that taken care of, and find you a place to spend the night."

A girl was being remarkably nice to him, and talking about finding a place to spend the night. Ryoga acted as he usually did when faced with such a treat; panic. His face lit like a scarlet sunset, his breathing coming in short, quickened gasps mixed with splutters and confused babbling, "Well…that is…but…I couldn't…don't know you…and my friend…waiting…get back." 

The woman could not hold in the merry giggle at the lost boy's pathetic, but oh so adorable display. Controlling herself she managed to speak through lips that still threatened to curve into an amused grin or fit of guffaws.

"Relax. I'm sure your friend will find us." 

Ryoga's tension did fade, yet his lips tightened as he thought of Ranma being called his friend. What on earth possessed him to say that, they may travel together but the guy was still a git. He began to consider the girl's offer, it would serve the jerk right to have to come looking for him. Especially after he had expected Ryoga to sit and wait by the kettle like some sort of trained, circus pig.

"If it's not too much trouble?" he asked, hand again rubbing at his scalp.

"Of course not I insist." the girl replied with a warm smile.

"In that case, it would be a big help." He extended a shuddering hand with a fanged grin. " I'm Ryoga."

She took the offered gesture in a firm grip and shook it once. "Willow." She replied. "They call me Willow."

Ranma spat a loud string of curses as she squatted in the dirt, pants pooled in the dirt about her ankles. Ryoga did not know what he was complaining about, he may have to stand on four feet when in his cursed form, yet at least he could still relieve himself standing up. The hands that held the tails of her coat about her waist tightened until the knuckles turned white. Everyone else would think her foolish: concerned over a pointless thing like the posture she urinated in. But to Ranma it was a slap in the face, a constant and necessary reminder of the manhood that she had lost. 

Finished she pulled her trousers back up and headed back for the fire, and the hot water, unwilling to stay in her female body another minute. Who cared if it rained again? The short time that she could stand at full height, with larger, masculine muscles that did not feel the ache of carrying a heavy pack and over-endowed breasts would still be a blessing.

Sighing she made a cursory glance for any dry twigs or branches. She had never truly intended to find any, the search just an excuse, not wanting Ryoga to see her crouching in the mud to perform a basic biological function. It was no sudden appearance of feminine modesty but a desire to hide, her shame at both the consequences and the inability to cope with those consequences, brought by her curse. She knew it was not the way a martial artist was supposed to act, but that privacy was sacred to her and she was glad it was not that time of the month. Her small experience with that problem, had made her glad to not have been born female, and grateful in such times hot water had never been too far away.

Abandoning her search she returned to the clearing. Her eyes widened quickly, then slowly narrowed, her jaw tightening as her teeth clenched. The pig was gone. The fire still flickered and cracked and his pack still lay by his own: yet it lay open, a few of the contents protruding in disarray from the top. For a moment the thought that he had been attacked by muggers or kidnapped flashed through her mind. Yet remembering that Ryoga was more than a match for any gang of thieves (not that there were likely to be any in the mountains,) and seeing the upturned and empty kettle, she opted for the more satisfying idea that the jerk had gotten lost again. 

She would have to make him suffer for it.

One in front of the other; step by step. Ryoga watched one of his feet advance, land, and then bear his weight as the other leg swung forwards to replace it, his body displaced forward through such a simple, cyclic action. He had never before noticed how curious the process of walking was, until he had been forced to learn how to do it upon four hooves. _Ranma doesn't realise how lucky he is he thought bitterly._

Now the lost boy watched his feet closely, not wanting to be caught staring at the girl who walked next to him, but he could not help the quick glances with which he studied her. His fangs chewed his lip at he kept silent, wary of anything stupid slipping from his mouth.

"You don't say a lot do you?" Willow said with a smile.

Ryoga blinked and started at her voice, then turned and saw her looking back at him with her emerald eyes. _Quick say something you idiot, his mind mentally snapped at him._

"I..er..don't have much to say…" He trailed of into weak laughter, his hand straying to the back of his head. _Good one stupid, his inner voice muttered dryly._

"Say anything, like whereabouts in Japan are you from?" dhe asked.

"Um…I'm not sure…I think it's near Tokyo." he muttered, idly wondering when the last time he saw his home was, and who the hell was feeding his dog.

"You _think_ it's near Tokyo?" Willow repeated, her eyebrow quirking.

"I kinda wander around a lot. I haven't been home for a while." He answered honestly, cursing his own stupidity for not even knowing his own address.

She nodded as if she had expected his reply. " Thought so. You don't really fit the bill of the typical tourist types we get around here. So I take it you're a travelling martial artist then?"

"Yeah, I guess." He had never thought of it that way before. It sounded better than getting lost and trying to find his bathroom, which was much closer to the truth. Besides, now that he and Ranma were travelling together, it was sort of a training voyage. 

"How did you guess?" he asked.

"We get quite a few so called martial artists mixed in with the tourists, all wanting to see the famous temples of Emei. But I could tell from your fighting stance that you had trained much harder and with more commitment than those part-timers." Ryoga smiled, glad that his skills had been noticed. Far too many people used him only as a benchmark to assess Ranma, so it was nice to be appreciated for his own work.

"Besides none of those schmucks had muscles like yours."

The bandana-clad boy stumbled, taking frantic steps and waving his arms wildly to avoid falling flat on his face, his face flushing to a scarlet sunset. After he regaining his balance he glanced at the bemused Willow, before becoming fascinated by his index fingers as he began twiddling them around each other. 

"You're a unique one aren't you?" the girl chortled. " It was a compliment, relax. I was just saying that you must train hard. Not can I have your children? Nor was it an invitation for hot and steamy sex. Calm down." 

Ryoga nodded dumbly as his mind fumbled for a change in subject. _Hot and steamy…_Image of this and the many other girls he knew, naked and sweaty invaded his mind. His blood surged, as it did not whether to flood his nose or to go further down. _Great, he snapped mentally,__ She had to say that!_

"So you do martial arts too?" He spluttered quickly.

She blinked, once, twice. Then her eyes widened. "Oh yeah right. Yes I practise my family's own style of kung fu. How about you? What style?"

Ryoga paused, "I guess I don't really have a style. My dad taught me a bit when I was a kid and I learnt what I could on my travels."

"Freestyle then?" She shrugged. " So long as it works."

"Yeah that what I thought." Ryoga agreed with a nod. " So what's your style called?"

"Bagua Zhang of Emei Mountain." She declared, chest swelling.

"Bagua?" He repeated slowly, his tongue and lips carefully shaping each syllable. Receiving no correction, the lost one assumed that he had spoken it correctly. Then a fragment of a memory flickered through his mind, long enough for him to seize the image of shining, circular ornament.

"Bagua? Aren't they those little mirrors that you buy as good luck charms, supposed to frighten off evil spirit or something like that." He flicked his wrist as if to dismiss such superstition.

Willow frowned, brows lowering. Ryoga panicked, wondering what he had said to anger her. "Bagua means 'Eight trigrams', it is the symbol on the charm not the mirror itself. And it is more than some backwater superstition." 

"I never said…" He trailed of as he took in the arch of the blonde eyebrow on his companions face. It seemed to say 'who are you trying to kid?" Giving up any attempt for an excuse he settled for a mumbled apology.

Willow sighed heavily, "Don't worry about it, a lot of people these days think such things ridiculous. The idea of charms and spirits must seem a bit far fetched to someone from a sensible, modern place like Japan."

Thinking about the weird things he had seen in his life; the tunnel of lost love, the Oni that possessed him and Kasumi, his own curse, Ryoga could not help but cast his eyes towards the ground. " No, I just wasn't thinking." he said quietly. "If you had seen some of the stuff I have, a charm would be very welcome." 

Willow smiled. "The Bagua is a religious symbol more than a charm." She said. "So the mirrors are not the best example of their use. It comes from the I-ching, the Book of Changes, a book of great significance to Taoist sects."

"Taoist? I thought that Emei, was a Buddhist sanctuary?" 

Willow was grinning widely. "It is: One of the Four Holy Mountains of Chinese Buddhism. But as you'll see when you get there get to see it for yourself, Mount Emei is said to be the 'Most Beautiful Mountain Under heaven.' It is that beauty that made many religions feel that this would be the perfect place to attain enlightenment. The first Temples here were Taoist, and then came many Buddhist shrines. The peaceful harmony between both religions is what allowed Emei martial arts to thrive."

"So it's a Taoist martial art then. Similar to how Buddhist discipline developed at the Shaolin temple." Ryoga surmised.

Willow's blonde locks waved like sunlight as she shook her head. " Taoist arts are very different from the arts of Shaolin. They focus on the internal, not the external."

"Huh," Ryoga grunted, before wincing at how stupid he sounded. He glanced sideways at his companion, who just chuckled. Pulling on a fanged grin he forced out a weak laugh. 

"What I mean is that Shaolin Kung Fu, developed from physical exercises, like yoga. The idea was to keep the body strong and healthy, and to learn spiritual discipline through external hardship. The arts I practise are based upon exercise that try to develop your internal spiritual energy, and thus harmonise it with the flow of energy in nature."

"You mean Ki? Ryoga asked, his grin spreading and twisting into a smirk. 

"Yes, that is the Japanese word for it isn't it?" She nodded as if to confirm that with her self. "Bagua Zhang was originally intended to develop one own Ki, and harmonise it with the Eight Phases of nature, by performing movements and breathing exercises that imitate and synchronise with those phases."

"So that must mean that you know a lot of Ki techniques." The fanged youth cried, whipping round to face her in her excitement. 

The girl started at his sudden movement, regarding him with wide eyes. " Er…yes I know one or two. Why do you ask?"

Ryoga put a hand behind his head and chuckled. _Damn, too keen! He silently berated himself. _Calm down Hibiki!_ " Just that's remarkable, I know a couple myself so I'm impressed. There not easy." __That' s it play it cool. Keep it casual; make her want to tell you. " So is the town nearby, " he glanced around ostentatiously. " maybe we could get something to eat when we get there." __Keep her talking, Ryoga. Get her to tell you all about her techniques, maybe even show you. That jerk Ranma won't know what hit him._

"Yeah, I am a little hungry. That'd be nice." he heard her reply.

"Great." He replied absently, and then his mental image of a crying, defeated Ranma popped as her words, and his own, sunk into his brain. _I just_ _asked her on a date. His jaw dropped. __And she said yes. His eyes bogged open. _

"Um…uh…uh." _What about Akane, and Akari? _His mind screamed. "You see…I…we…" He looked at his hands as he wrung them together, the knuckles popping quietly. 

"So should we go?" she asked, " It's not far now."

The sound of her voice snapped him out of his near comatose state. " What? Go? Yes, lets." He hurriedly strode off, laughing weakly.

"Um…that's the wrong way."

The steel of the gate bent and folded under the force of Brand's foot, the metal ringing in protest at the impact. Smiling widely, he spun to parry the palm strike that was shooting towards his face. Pressed back, he lashed out low with a leg sweep, caching his opponent's foot at the ankle and toppling him. But the other man would not fall, and in an act of near inhuman agility, used the swept limb to rebound off of the dented gate and propel him into a backward somersault. 

Brand felt a small sting as his foe flipped away to land in a casual stance at several paces distance. The young man smirked cockily, blue eyes flashing beneath a single, sharp, low-hanging bang as he ran a manicured hand through his wild, irrational crest of blonde, spiked hair. 

Brand rubbed dramatically at the tingling sensation in his shoulder, not from the pain but rather to acknowledge the strike that had hit it. 

"Impressive," he conceded.

The blonde just shrugged, pushing back the folds of his long, sleeveless robe and his burying his hands in the pockets of his pale khakis. Then he glanced at Brand through the corners of his eyes. 

"We're really going to have to work on your people skills, Brand." He shook his head, with a series of elaborate tutting noises. "A flying kick is really no way to greet anyone, let alone family. And look what you did to the gate."

"Spare me the theatrics, Blitz, I thought you'd appreciate the test." Brand replied with a glare.

His brother again shrugged, not removing his hands. "If you want to spar with me, Chuckles, you could just ask." Blitz's lips curled upwards soon after Brand felt his own twist. "But then I already did once already today, and three times yesterday, and the day before that. What's the matter? Can't get Cloud or Stone to fight with you."

"Both spend most of their time meditating, Stone in the caves and Cloud is  up on the summit as usual. Also Cloud spends the rest of his time with Tyde." Brand brushed a layer of imaginary dirt from the shoulder of his robe.

"Well she has been ill of kate." Blitz muttered sombrely. " It's only right that he should

Blitz paused respectfully, then asked "What of Crag or Willow?"

"Crag's a simpleton, and Willow's not quite up to our intensity yet, and I don't want to hurt her."

"Ever the protective older brother," the other man remarked. "You don't seem to mind hurting me. In any case, I assume that the old man is still in the library?"

Brand nodded, then glanced up at his companion. "Besides all that," he grunted with a dismissive wave of his ringed hand. "You are usually glad of the challenge."

The other man grinned widely. " That's true, our matches are a worthy diversion, at least when there are no women about." The larger man grimaced, but that just made the blonde smirk even more. " However, do you not wish for a different challenge now and again?" The gleam in his brother's eyes was impossible to miss. Brand could not help but smile himself.

"That's exactly what I wished to talk to you about."

"Oh," Blitz responded in a curious tone. "Then I take it you've seen our talented tourist? I'm surprised you didn't act already."

"I can have patience when I want. But then I could ask why you have not made a move yet, she was very cute, a redhead." he remarked, absently running a hand through his own fiery curls.

"She?" Blitz's brow furrowed.

"Yes, she." Brand repeated, his own eyes narrowing in confusion. "I saw her in the woods outside of town. She was leaping through the trees, bouncing from branch to branch with the grace and precision that only comes from training in the Arts. She managed it with two rather large packs, so that means she must have some skills." 

"The one I saw was not a girl." Blitz said with a sidelong glance. " It was a large, muscular lad, with muddy clothes and a bandana. He did not do anything out of the ordinary, but with his build and clothing I assumed he must be a martial artist. And he must be a good one to catch Willow's attention."

"WHAT!" Brand roared surging to his feet.

Blitz just looked back from the corner of his eyes, brows still curled. " Yeah, he was in town with her, eating at the Purple Onion, seemed quite cosy."

"COSY," Brand spat, hands balling into fists. "She's on a date with some boy we don't know! A tourist."

"Calm down, Brand, don't you think your over-reacting? She can take care of herself. I pity the guy if he tries to force anything on her." Blitz said, wincing at the mental image of someone who got on the wrong side of the girl's temper.

"So what, what if he tries to persuade her. Charm her. You know what the tourists are like, always looking to put the moves on some naïve Chinese girl. What if he gets smooth on her." He could not let that happen. His baby sister was far too good for any man, let alone some sweet-talking foreign lout with only one thought in his head.

"C'mon, how bad could he be?"

The large warrior glared at his spiky haired sibling, and spat his reply back like a spear. " He could be like you."

Blitz's eyes widened and he leapt to his feet. "We'd better hurry before she does something that I'd do."

Brand felt his lips slowly twist into a smile as he cracked his knuckles.

The mouth-watering scent of cooking meat filled the room, mingling within the steam that billowed throughout the open kitchen. Two chefs yelled at each other loud, rushed Chinese as they bustled around the cookers, shaking woks and chopping vegetables. The older, matronly waitress and her younger and clumsier counter part wandered the café restlessly, pausing to wipe at tables and chat to each other and the few other customers.

Ryoga eyed the pig carcasses, visible on their hooks through the open wall of the kitchen and chewed on his lips, not noticing the pain inflicted by his sharp fangs. 

"Ryoga, you got some weird fetish about pigs?" Willow asked with a raised eyebrow.

On hearing the word 'pig', the chopsticks in Ryoga's hand snapped into splinters. Looking at the ruined pieces of wood, he laughed weakly and tossed them onto the growing pile of eating implements he had already broken.

"Pigs?" He felt beads of sweat blossom on his brow. "W…What makes you say that?"

Willow chuckled. "I'm just kidding. Relax." She gestured with her head towards the butchered pork. "It's just you've been looking over there a lot, and looking kind of nervous. And I know it's not some animal rights thing," She pointed at the remains of the beef bowl that the lost boy had devoured.

"Um…well…" Ryoga's mind whirled through a wild flurry of thoughts, flickering through possible excuses and weighing them for plausibility. While this was going on his mouth moved and he babbled senselessly. He always was pathetic at making up spontaneous excuses.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised." Willow said finally. " I doubt they hang their meat out so openly in Japan. Must look a bit weird." 

Ryoga barely managed to swallow his sigh of relief, squashing it to a small, gulping noise. "Yeah, that's it." he said in a small voice.

The elderly waitress came across and began clearing the plates from in front of them. She shot a smile of crooked teeth at Ryoga, who shuddered in reply. Turning away hastily, he reached into the pocket of his pants for his wallet.

"I'll get this." He said. Ranma would be pissed off about him spending what little money they had, but he had to be nice to the girl if he wanted her to share her techniques. Besides it was the gentlemanly thing to do, and he was always happy to irritate the pigtailed git.

" How much? " He asked the old woman in Mandarin.

She smiled widely at him, and then beamed wider at Willow, her grin approaching adulation. He noticed her dark eyes glancing over the glided embroidery of the phoenix upon his new friend's robe. " No charge, " She replied.

" Really? " Ryoga spluttered.

" Of course, " She grabbed the remaining bowls and then trotted off. Ryoga glanced over at his companion with wide eyes.

"That happens often?" He asked.

The blonde girl shrugged, "As I said, my family has a lot of respect in this town. It is a little embarrassing but what can I do, they would be offended if I declined. Besides, you're not exactly rolling in the Yuan." She arched her eyebrow at the few, crumpled bills in the dark-haired boy's wallet.

Ryoga blushed, and rubbed at his scalp. "Well…it has been a long trip." He muttered weakly.

Willow smiled warmly. " I understand, don't worry." She pushed off of the table as she rose to her feet, smoothing out the dark material of her thin robe. "C'mon lets see if we can get your clothes cleaned for free too."

Ryoga nodded and followed her to the door. Once there he watched Willow incline her head in a small almost benevolent bow towards the waitress. The old woman in turn bowed low, almost bending double at the waist. Thinking it to be customary, he repeated the gesture with a smile, only to receive a grimace in response.

Shaking his head dumbly he joined Willow outside on the street. The Purple Onion sat on a small lane, the road paved with round, cobbled stones that set two cyclists shuddering as they rode across the uneven stones. Tsing Ku was a small town, barely more than a stop for the tourists who made there way along the main road from Cheng Du to see the sights that Mount Emei had to offer. Filled with a few small houses, and the bare essentials needed to supply the stream of foreign visitors and the monk that inhabited the temples that the area was famous for. A polite place, where the few locals that he saw greeted each other warmly on sight. The lost youth had seen hundreds of humble places like this on his inadvertent travels, yet one bizarre feature of this town struck a cord in his mind.

Every citizen: man, woman and child, no matter what they were doing and or where they were going; immediately bowed deeply to the golden haired girl that walked beside him.

"So…er…what exactly do your family do?" he asked, his eyes trailing after the small child that skipped happily away after receiving a smile from his companion.

Willow jumped, and he saw her gaze flicker to look at him from the corners of her eyes, and then to the floor. " Um…I guess you could call them scholars."

"Scholars?"

"Yes, we live on the mountain and research and records old religious texts and stuff, very sacred work."     

"Right, so are you monks or something?"

Willow chuckled at the suggestion. "If we were monks, how could we be a family?"

Ryoga blushed, and scratched his head. "I guess," he murmured.

Stars coruscated before his eyes as a screaming pain blossomed in the back of his skull. Ryoga sagged to his knees, face pushed into the pavement before him by the weight of the object that had just flown in to his cranium. Growling, he pushed himself up with his hands, shrugging the bulky projectile off from his torso. Glancing around the street, and blinking rapidly to clear the coloured spots before his eyes, he made out a scarlet blur standing before him.

"Ranma!" He spat.

The pigtailed girl frowned at him, arms crossed beneath her breasts and foot tapping in a posture of such perfect womanly anger to belie her true gender. Her pack hung from her shoulders whereas his own, lay in a disarrayed heap by his side, leading to the conclusion that it had been the object that was struck him.

Gathering himself on his feet, he returned Ranma's glare with equal vehemence. 

"Why the hell did you do that, you jerk?" he roared.

"Why the hell did you sod off without a word?" came the reply.

Ryoga rubbed at the small lump that was blooming on his head, and reached for his pack, preparing to re-launch it his nemesis. Yet the path was blocked as Willow stepped to his side, the gold thread of the phoenix shimmering on her robe. She laid a hand gently on his shoulder, and pried his hand away from the bruise, regarding it her self. She smiled at him reassuringly after recognising it to be a trivial matter.

"Ryoga, do you know this woman?" she asked, a hard glare levelled at the redhead facing her.

"Unfortunately," he grunted. 

Ranma's lips had curled into a smirk, one eyebrow raising as he looked over the blonde in obvious appraisal, her eyes running from the head of golden hair down the mismatched clothing and robe to the out of place sneakers and back up. Willow just fidgeted, her mouth working silently as the shorter girl judged her. Finally Ranma nodded and her grin widened.

"Well well, Ryoga," she chimed. "You ditched out on me to pull a cute girl." Her red locks swayed as she tutted and shook her head, but her smile never wavered. "Not very friendly, but I understand, you wanted to play the ladies man. Wouldn't have thought you had it in you; I must be rubbing off on you." She ran a hand through her hair in a cocky gesture 

"Shut your mouth, Ranma," Ryoga grimaced.

Willow placed her hand on his shoulder and used it to turn him slightly so that emerald irises could meet hazel. She wore a small frown, her lips slightly parted and her gaze heavy through wide eyes.

"Ryoga, is she your girlfriend?" she asked softly.

His jaw dropped, moving soundlessly. His body jerked and stiffened, and for several, long seconds he seemed locked in place. Then he exploded into a torrent of rage-filled denials.

"WHAT!" he roared, his voice raising an octave through sheer indignation. "Him! Are you insane! I hate his guts!" The furious rebuttal ended as the dark-haired lad's face paled to a sickly, green and retching noises were coughed from his mouth. " I'm going to throw up," he wailed dramatically.

The frenzy of laughter that had accompanied his reaction, fell silent. " Hey, you don't push my button's either Bacon-boy," Ranma said testily, but the shaking of her shoulders and occasional titters showed her fight against amusement. With a small chortle she glanced at the other girl. 

"To come up with a dumb idea like that, I guess you must be a natural blonde." She laughed again at her own wisecrack.

Ryoga's jaw tightened, his disgust vanishing as his fangs ground against each other. He balled his hands into a fist and readied a battle cry ready for when he launched at the young Saotome for insulting a friend; but stopped as he noted the slight twitching of Willow's right eye.

"Was-that-a-blonde-joke?" She grated out word-by-word through gritted teeth.

Ranma went stiff, face reddening as her jaw dropped. Her eyes widened and she tugged at the collar of her scarlet shirt, throat moving as she swallowed audibly.

"Um well. Yeah," her eyes flickered across her surroundings feverishly. " But it was only a joke. Y'know kidding and all that."

Ryoga could not help but smile, fangs biting into his lips as he fought to suppress the fit of giggles that threatened to surge from his throat. He failed however, and burst into laughter as he watched his rival squirm. The lost boy imagined that Ranma found the taste of his own foot as bitter as ever.

"I should have known," Willow sneered towards the Saotome girl. "A dog like you would scare away more men than you could find. Especially a guy like Ryoga."

The fanged boy felt his cheeks heat up. He focussed upon his hands as he twirled his thumbs together. _I wonder what she meant by that! He glanced sidelong at the young blonde, but her eyes were still glaring lightening bolts at Ranma. The pig-tailed one returned the glower earnestly, her small frame quivering as she raised a white-knuckled fist._

"Dog, you mean like a golden retriever, Blondie," Ranma spat.

Willow's eye twitched again. " Was that another blonde joke," she asked in a deadly whisper.

The corner of Ranma's lip curled higher. "Sure was, why do I need to speak slower and use smaller words."

Ryoga frowned his brow furrowing as he observed the exchange with out any clue. His gaze flickered back and forth, regarding each woman in turn. They continued glaring at each other, Willow's jaw tightening visibly as Ranma continued to smirk cockily. Ryoga knew and hated that smile, and he had seen it many times, yet did not understand why the Anything-goes heir would be wearing it now, as this was no challenge. Nor could he understand the sudden change in his new friends demeanour, as Willow seethed from a few low jibes, the type of petty shots one expected from Ranma.  

A series of percussive pops shook the lost boy from his wonderings, and he turned to see Willow begin to crack the knuckles on her other hand, emitting the same jarring sounds.

"So, is this girl a friend of yours, Ryoga?" she asked.

"That jerk, on a cold day in hell." Ryoga snapped immediately and without thought. Instinctually incensed by the suggestion his fangs bared themselves as he glared at Ranma from the corners of his eyes. He then regarded Willow, who was now walking towards the smaller girl. She seemed pleased with his answer, a smirk appearing on her face similar to the one that had dropped from the redhead's and had been replaced by a bemused frown.

"And she can fight?" was the next question, but it needed no answer and so Ranma replied with another question.

"And what if I can?" she said with a scowl.

Willow ignored her, twisting to look over her shoulder at the fanged boy.

"So you don't mind if I have a little match with her. Teach her some manners."

Ryoga blinked, and then his lips curled into a grin to match hers. This was a very interesting development. He knew it was not really fair, as Ranma would never fight full out against a woman. But then, the git did deserve it; perhaps getting beaten by a girl would improve his manner towards Akane. Also it would give Ryoga a great chance to see this Bagua Zhang style, and if it possessed any techniques that would aid his quest to defeat the pigtailed martial artist.

"Go right ahead," he said with a shrug.

Ranma fumed, "Ryoga, you traitorous jackass," she yelled, cursing her life. A thought rose in her mind, one that she had surfaced countless times before and that now bubbled up like miasma. _How do I get myself into these messes? Said the wrong thing at the wrong time, the usual way. She had only wanted to embarrass Ryoga on what seemed to be (but was doubtfully) a date. Obviously his new friend did not appreciate Ranma's sense of humour. But then she had not responded well to the insults either. _

_Way to make a first impression, retard _he swore at himself. Question now was what to do about the situation.  __

Her hands came up in a calming, warding gesture, knees bending in readiness as Willow took her fighting stance. The blonde's leg was held in front, toe just touching on the ground. Her back leg bowed towards him, lowering height and her hand came up to guard, open palm tracing wide, flowing circles in the air before her.

"Look can't we talk about this like civil people," the pigtailed girl said weakly, hoping to talk her way out of this. _Like that ever works?_

"Sound like you're scared," taunted Willow.

Ranma rose to the bait without thought. " Scared? Of a ditzy blonde?"

The words sprung from her tongue and into the air. As soon as she heard the retort, she clamped her hands over her mouth, as if attempting to reseal the sentence back, behind her lips. _Crap._

Her face twisting into a furious grimace, Willow stuck out, lunging forwards with a high palm strike. Ranma twisted out of the blows path and stepped to the other girl's flank.

"Look we don't have to do this." she yelped, as she raised both hands to block the incoming backhand. Willow snorted, and then slid forwards in a swinging step. Ranma inched back, head snapping out of the path of a short hook.

She did not see the other palm, which shot into her gut. Grunting she brought both hands up defensively, but the blonde swung another circling step, sweeping the petit redheads feet from beneath.

Ranma landed hard with a gasp. She grimaced as she pulled herself up, "Ow." She muttered. Willow was smirking at her, yet the gesture seemed cold and absent. Ryoga however was laughing loudly.

"Ranma getting beat by a girl." The fanged boy taunted. "That's entertainment."

The pigtailed youth growled glaring daggers at the chortling fool. Resuming a neutral posture she considered trying to reason with the woman again. Yet, watching as the girl charged at her, Ranma decided it was pointless. _Never worked with Akane or any of the others anyway,_ she remarked silently as she readied herself.

Swerving to the side, Ranma blocked the assault, knocking aside a jab and rising palm strike combo with her forearms before jamming the blonde's attempting kick by lashing out his knee. Willow winced but pushed the attack, releasing another shifting series of open handed blows. 

Ranma effortlessly blocked, and slid forwards to counter, holding himself back at the last moment. Willow jumped on the opening, seizing the Japanese girl's still outstretched hand to yank her forwards and onto her fist. Ranma gurgled as the wind was expelled from her lungs, but her opponent was sliding to the side jabbing an elbow into her ribs. She arched herself from the blow, which made her perfectly open for the two palms that slammed into her back; iron fingers splayed forming a dragon's mouth.  

Already of balance, Ranma was knocked from her feet by the blow, and sent tumbling to the dirt. Barely catching herself on her hands before her nose was smashed on the floor. Teeth gritting with effort, Ranma just managed to handspring to her feet.

"Crap!" She spat, rubbing at her spine.

"Your own fault for trying to hold back, sweetheart." Willow said,

"I don't fight girls." Ranma protested, earning her a confused glare from her opponent.

"Strange thing to say, don't suppose you've looked in the mirror lately. Or at your chest." Willow's eyebrow quirked as she stared pointedly at Ranma's female form and its ample endowments.

The pigtailed girl's face coloured to match her fiery hair. "Appearances can be deceptive," she muttered.

"That is true," Willow agreed with a shrug. "And that's why blonde jokes really piss me off." She roared the last words as she launched her self, foot lashing out at Ranma's head.

Ducking, the young Saotome slid beneath the slashing limb and out of the range of any follow up attack. _I don't want to hurt her, it's not right. But I've got to do something, her mind was working furiously as her hands blurred. She instinctively knocked aside another open-handed combo, jumping off the ground to avoid a low sweep._

Landing in a crouch, she spun striking out with her own foot, forcing Willow to back off. Coming back up she adopted an open stance, presenting her side to her opponent on slightly bowed legs, her arms bent at the elbows to form an open guard. She drew her rear forearm level with her brow, finger splayed and pointing towards heaven, her other arm covered her ribs hands clawing for the earth.

"Fancy," Willow remarked. "And what do you call that."

"_Tenchi no Kamae," Ranma answered._

With a wary, narrow eyed stare the blonde girl advanced slowly, shuffling carefully forwards on the balls of her feet. Her hands swayed fluidly, outstretched before her, probing like the flickering tongue of a snake.

"Too bad it leaves you open," she cried, and on the last word attacked. 

Ranma's hand came up to intercept the blow, deflecting the incoming palm with her wrist as she flowed to the Chinese girl's flank. As she moved her touch stuck softly to Willow's arm, clinging like cotton as she redirected the strike, bringing to her centre. Pulled off balance the taller girl took a hasty step to avoid falling, killing her attempt at a follow up attack.

Stepping back as her assailant righted herself, Ranma resumed the Heaven and Earth stance, awaiting the other girl's next move.

With a disdainful snort, Willow spun, black robes billowing open as she whipped her foot into a high roundhouse. Ranma shot in, receiving the hit on her forearm as she took a step, moving with the kicks motion and neutralising its power. Her arms then rose in a sweeping circle, hooking the leg and capturing it against her hip. 

Willow struggled to recover her limb, but Ranma's grip held fast. With an angry snarl she jumped off of her standing leg and swung her hips round, bringing the same foot smacking against the redhead's cheek.

Recoiling from the unexpected blow, Ranma stumbled to the side, her hand rising to cover her smarting jaw. Pressing her advantage Willow moved, unleashing a flurry of blows. 

Taking three palm strikes to the chest and one across her other cheek, Ranma grunted with the impacts as she managed to raise her defences. Sensing the incoming open handed uppercut, she sliced her hand down like a sword, her knife hand cutting into Willow's bicep. Watching a wince flash across the girl's features, the pigtailed youth used the distraction to slide out of range of her opponent's hands. She gritted her teeth as her struck muscles protested, and she damned the weakness of this cursed body.

Willow resumed her attack, as Ranma braced herself to defend, returning to her stance. The Chinese girl lashed out with a wild back hand, which Ranma easily avoided and captured, dodging forwards and to the outside as her hand first parried and then clamped onto Willow's wrist. Her other arm wrapped itself over her enemies shoulder, cradling the side of her slim neck. 

Ranma swept a step backwards, moving with and absorbing the arcing momentum of the attack, then with a sudden twist, reversed her direction, dropping to one knee as she returned the stolen force. Pulling against the shoulder as she released the wrist and tipped back the other fighter's jaw. 

Whirled off of her feet Willow was sent spinning to the pavement, a small cloud of dust kicking up as she slid across the cobbles.

"Can we please talk this through now?" Ranma asked, despising the weary quality that had appeared in her voice.

Her response was a spitting, searing noise, like the shrill whine of a firecracker as it shot into the sky. Eyes wide the pigtailed girl looked on in horror as the pavement parted before a wedge of dust filled air which sped across the ground, ploughing up fragments of stone as it moved. The wedge slammed into her legs and swept them from under her, sending her tumbling forwards.

She landed hard on crossed forearms, grimacing as the impact jarred her bones. Glaring through her red bangs, eyes narrowing; she watched her opponent rise to feet arms cradling her side. Ranma followed suit, rubbing at her elbows as stood. 

"I've got some tricks of my own," the golden-haired girl said with a smirk.

"So I see." Ranma grunted.

" Can you." Willow lifted her palm and swept it forwards. " Kyoufu Shou!"

The air between them warped and twisted, small vertical ripples trailing behind the speeding charge of compressed air like shockwaves. Raising her arms to form a cross, Ranma braced herself. The projectile struck against her arms like a large barely visible fist, jolting her frame as she stepped back to absorb the blow. The impact stung her already bruised arms, but no more. Ranma frowned, _It's like the Kijin Raishu Dan, he thought, remembering the vacuum blade attack used by Ryu Kumon and invented by his father. _She's using it bluntly though. That's nice of her, _that thought was a bitter one._

Glancing for a second out of the corner of her eyes, she noticed Ryoga's green eyes watching intently. _Probably looking for a technique to beat me with, bastard. Wonder if he caught it? Momentarily a frown creased her face._ Doubtful, but even if he did it wouldn't matter.__

"It's not enough," she bragged.

Her opponents just smiled. "Maybe not, we'll see." Her hands came up again, and the air once again began to shift. "Kyoufu Shou!" She threw another bolt of air with her left hand, before she shooting her right out to launch another.

Instead of blocking Ranma charged, hoping to close the distance and close into hand to hand. Unwilling as she was to unleash her Moko Takabisha, her best hope was to encourage the blonde to resume hand-to-hand combat. 

The two air-shots tore threw the air as they approached. Pushing hard on her left foot Ranma dodged to the right, before leaping hard to the left, weaving between the two bolts as they swept past. Yet behind the distorted air came Willow, lunging forwards in the wake of her air bullets. Eyes widening Ranma's forearm flashed up, barely managing to block the incoming fist.

The two girls crashed into each other, the smaller redhead mown down by the larger frame of the blonde girl. Yet she moved with the fall, dropping to her side as she took curled her fists into the lapels of the China girl's robes. Slipping her foot between her opponent's legs she dropped sideways, using her shin to push against the inner thigh as she pulled sharply with her hands. Lifted from her feet Willow was tossed over Ranma's head. 

Rising to her feet Ranma watched as the blonde projected herself into a break fall, rolling to her feet with no harm. The young Saotome felt her lips twitch as she fought to withhold a smirk in the face of the cold glare Willow aimed at him.

"This is getting old and fast," she said in a flat monotone.

"Does that mean we can stop this and talk?" Ranma asked hopefully.

"No," was the icy reply.

Ranma sighed, as the fight resumed sinking back into Tenchi no Kamae Willow flashed forwards, hands both striking out in a fast combination of attacks. Ranma easily evaded them, strafing to the side as she knocked the hits away. The blonde shifted quickly, spinning to the redhead's left and planting an elbow into her kidney. Ranma winced, and tucked her elbows close in defence, but the other girl was already in motion, coming from behind to land a swift trio of blows; a knife hand to both the base of the head and the floating ribs, and a stomping kick to the back of the knee.

Ranma dropped as her support was weakened. Landing on her knee she kicked out with her another foot, making a sharp stinging blow to her opponent's shin, before lunging into a roll, forcing some distance between them.

Coming up standing she spun quickly, growling in frustration as the girl continued her relentless offensive. She snapped her forearm down to parry the open handed uppercut that shovelled at her gut, moving diagonally forwards to avoid any follow up blows. But her opponent came at her flank again. Ranma twisted pushing her arm to trap Willow's before they could strike, but her knee caught him directly on the nerve cluster of the thigh. Squawking as her leg numbed she slid back on her other foot, sweeping around as the blonde tried to get at her back. Hampered by her struck limb, she was forced to twist sinuously slipping and batting aside the incoming palm strikes.

Conscious of the other girl's tactics, Ranma was forced to move whenever Willow did, matching the circling steps to avoid being struck from behind. Yet with pins and needles shooting through her legs, such evasion was difficult. She was unable to match as the blonde shifted, switching direction and slamming the heels of each palm into Ranma belly and side. Grunting with the blows, she moved back hoping to gain some space, as she was unwilling to strike back. Her lips twisted as she moved, the perceived injustice penetrating through the haze of battle. _I won't hit her back, she swore, her eyes silently probing Willow's icy facade for any hint of her movements, any opportunity for a joint lock or harmless throw, a peaceful technique. But there was nothing. _

Her arm snapped around sharply to ward off a blow to the sweeping in towards his faced from the right. _But with this numbed leg I can't keep up this defence if she keeps spiralling around me._

Something in her mind snapped in to place with a mentally audible click that resounded in her head. The pieces of some puzzle she had not known about began to come together. _Final technique! Cold expression! Spiral movement!  Her eyes widened as more clues presented them selves. As if the curtain had been lifted by her suspicions she noticed the shifting of the air, sensing it growing denser and thicker. __Oh shit._

Time slowed as Willow tightened the circle, Ranma watched her hand draw back and then rise into the uppercut, the hand screwing through the air as it struck at the sky._ She could feel the Ki charging the air in the fist's wake. _OH SHIT!__

"HOU'OU HANE SHIPPU!"

The winds rose, and an image blazed in Ranma's mind. She saw a flash of white hair and cold, golden eyes. Instinct did the rest.

" HIRYU SHOTEN HA!" 

The sleeping dragon arose to battle with the phoenix. The winds howled to life as the hurricane roared in to life. Buffeted by wild, circular gusts she was lifted from her feet and sucked into the rising vortex. Through the sounds that rushed in her ears, she heard an intense scream and something slammed into her body. 

Ranma grunted as she was swept away into the current. Squinting through the dust and air that slammed into her face, she saw Willow being tossed and blasted like a rag doll by the harsh winds. The blonde was wailing as the wild tides carried her higher.

This was not the first time Ranma had been caught in the Ki vortex. Drawing on that experience she let the winds take her higher, gusts whipping her hair about her head and blasting her face. She did not fight it, instead flowing with the violent air and kicking with her feet to propel her upwards on the heels of her tumbling opponent. Stretching out her hand she tried to get a handhold upon the spinning blonde, but it was too late. With a loud scream Willow was ejected from the cyclone and shot through the sky.

Grabbing hold of a nearby rooftop, the young Saotome rode out the storm.

The air slowly calmed, easing to a gentle breeze. She dropped from the house and straight into Ryoga's fist.

"Ranma, you bastard, how could you use a technique like that on a girl?"

Gasping around the lost boys hand, she pushed him away wearily.

"Put a sock in it, Bacon-breath." She grunted. " And help me look for her."

"Why should I help you," The fanged boy spat.

"Well depends if you care for your date?" 

"SHE'S NOT MY DATE!" The snapped reply was instantaneous.

Ranma sighed. "What ever P-Chan. But I wouldn't hand around, the natives look pissed." She gestured with a nod of her head towards a few numb villagers. They stood still as if shell-shocked by the events they witnessed; yet the rising anger was evident in their flushing faced and silent growls.

Limping on her still stunned leg, she traipsed over to her pack. Her muscles ached and protested the motion; she forced the sensations down with gritted teeth. She turned, towards the horizon that Willow was last seen sailing over. Her hands clenched, knuckles whitening. Ryoga was right; using such a techniques had been too excessive. But she had gotten herself into this mess, and she would clean it up herself.

Akane gasped as she shot awake. Bolting upright, she coughed and spluttered up a small deluge of icy water. She shivered from the cold that was seeping into her and from the white-hot rage that built inside. She growled low in her throat, the sound building as she forced it out through her jaw as it shuddered from the cold. Hands balling into her bedclothes, she shot her eyes towards the door, before her brows lowered as she saw the figure standing there.

Genma Saotome's large frame filled the doorway imposingly, the now empty bucket clanging as he let it fall from his fingers. Akane drew breath to yell, only to have the words die in her throat as the heavyset man threw something at her.

Her vision was veiled behind white cloth. Jaw tightening she clawed the fabric from her face and glared at hit, her jaw dropping as she recognised the item as her training gi.

"I'll be waiting in the dojo, you've got ten minutes." Genma said gruffly before stomping out of the room. 

She sat there for several moments, a haze of confusion clouding her thoughts. Then a steak of curiosity lanced through her mind. She threw back the covers and leapt out of bed, beginning to change as fast as her hands would work on her buttons, lips twisting at the feeling of the wet fabric sliding across her skin. Then her eyes caught on the curtains, and she flung them open. Her jaw dropped.

Twilight blue was still washed across the sky, the colours slowly paling on the horizon. Amongst the spires of the distant skyscrapers a growing halo of golden light crept upwards slowly. A glance at her alarm clock confirmed her suspicions.

Dawn had come.

AN- I'll keep it short. It's just a start, so not much to say. Just that I'd like to address those who commented on my portrayal of Nodoka: You're absolutely right; I forgot how ditzy she was. But the die is cast now; I guess I got to run with it. Hope nobody minds. And thanks to those who reviewed the Mantis Saga, your words make me want to write and happy that what I do is appreciated. So review this one too!  Thanks to Rob and Bernie for pre-reading.

**Glossary-** I'll start including a list for all the martial arts terms and special techniques here. Mainly coz I don't want to index them all the time, so in the future you can find the translations here. I'll also stick them in the End of saga notes too. Hope it helps. And tell me if I start using to many, I don't like using pointless Japanese (such as –sans and such) since I write in English, but I think it's important for martial arts terms, but O don't want to go over board. Also I'm not an expert in Japanese so some of the words (especially those for made up techniques) may not translate exactly as given. 

**Tenchi no Kamae- **Posture of Heaven and Earth, a defensive stance common in traditional Japanese martial arts (budo) particularly in Jiu-jitsu and Ken-jitsu. Video game buffs may recognise the stance from Virtual Fighter 4 as used by Aoi.

**Bagua Zhang- **Eight Trigram Palms.A real life Chinese internal martial art and the inspiration for this saga. Called Hakkeshou in Japanese. I'll include more details in the story and in the notes. I'll be using a mix if the actual fact and poetic licence as I did for Mantis style, so hope I don't offend too many practitioners of this style.

**Kyoufu Shou- **Raging Wind palm, a blunt blast of compressed air similar to a vacuum blade.

**Hou'ou Hane Shippu- **Phoenix wing gale, A summoned hurricane attack similar to the Hiryu Shoten Ha.

Thanks 

Beer-monster.

PS- Can my estranged beta Wandering Oni give us a mail as I lost his address.

PPS- Um… this may be an odd question. But do I have many girl/woman readers. Let me know. And would any of you ladies like to be a pre-reader for me. You don't need expert grammar talents, I've got that covered. However I will soon be writing more scenes from the Ranma girls viewpoints (particularly Akane and Shampoo so big fans of them would help), and being a dozy bloke I would appreciate some help with womanly attitudes and thoughts and such, y'know help me get into their heads.

Warning, though you must be open minded when it comes to pairing and a lot of stuff. Thanks. 

                

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	2. The Fires of the Forge

**_Honour And Pride_****__**

By Beer-Monster

Book II: The Eight Phases.

_Chapter Two: The Fires of the Forge_

_Perseverance is more prevailing than violence; _

_and many things which cannot be overcome when they are together,_

_ yield themselves up when taken little by little - _Plutarch__

            The rain fell in relentless sheets, a wet mist that was invisible against the gloom of the night sky but for the flickering orange halos around the glowing streetlights. The air was heavy with the crisp scent of moist grass and filled by the endless hiss of the falling showers.

            Genma Saotome took another sip of sake as he sat beneath the sloping roof of the Tendo dojo, watching the rain as it made ripple and after ripple upon the once tranquil surface of the koi pond. He loved to watch the rain, even after Jusenkyo.  It brought him peace for some reason he could not comprehend. Maybe he thought that falling downpour could wash away the taint of the things he had done in his life. Maybe it was the memories evoked, visions of a less complicated time when he would train in the storm, matching his stance against the winds and punching with the crack of the thunder; when the Master had actually taught him, watching with an auspicious eye as his best pupil mastered the art; times when he had travelled Japan, slamming his knuckles into the tree under a fine drizzle; times when he squatted in the rain by the roaring of the sea and presented two open palms as small targets for his young son to punch and kick. 

            He sighed wistfully and poured another measure of wine into his cup. Those days were gone; he could no longer enjoy the rain without the detestable feeling of wet fur. And his son was gone, thinking that his father had nothing left to teach, he had left the nest. He had become a man.

            Genma snorted into his wine. _Question is:_ _Can he stay that way? _

His lips twisted as he remembered the last time he had seen his son. Ranma had thought everything he had said was a joke; but then he had always been an ungrateful brat. He sometimes thought that he had taught the boy too well. Everything Genma had done, he had done for Ranma, but now everything Ranma did was for Ranma. He had left without a thought for the all the work his poor father had done for him, or for his mother.

            The large mans' mouth curled into a smile even as his hand absently stroked his lower belly. The woman was quicksilver, warmth and smiles one second, cold eyes and a viper tongue the next. But then that was why Genma loved her. And it was why he was sure that Ranma cared for Akane, no matter what the boy said. Such women were a weakness bred to all Saotome men. 

            Nodoka had been cold since Ranma left, the loss of her only child for the second time had wounded her deeply. But Genma knew there was more to it than that. He had lied and cheated enough people to know how to read a person who was hiding something, and his wife was too proud and honourable to do it well. Ranma had probably said something to her; that was how he usually pissed people off, his big mouth. _Don't know where he picked it up, I certainly didn't teach the boy! _

            However his wife's attitude had turned around throughout the day. Her smile had returned, but without its usual warmth. He ran a finger over the clean and crisp white fabric of his gi. She had wrestled it from him while he had played with his tyre, and thrown it into the wash.

            Nodoka's smile had returned, lacking its usual warmth as if it were a mask worn to cover an obviously troubled mind. All day she had bustled about the house, armed with duster, mop and vacuum cleaner, sending poor Kasumi into a spin. She had hummed as she worked, as she often did, but the sound was strained and melody wandering. Her flurry had finally stopped a short time ago as she retired to her bed.

            A smile found its way onto Genma's lips, his cheek tingling as he recalled the kiss she had placed there, leaning over him as she whispered 

"Don't be long, dear."

            His grin grew wider, his wife's coy invitation returning vigour to his bones as he sipped up the last of his sake. Many times as he had travelled with Ranma, Genma had thought of Nodoka's chaste yet forceful touch, and since his reunion with his love he had thought of it more. Basking in the afterglow and savouring the feel of the sweat on her skin, he often wondered how he had ever lived without it.

            Setting his cup aside he stood, knowing that his wife would still be waiting for him. He inhaled deeply, taking in the crisp scent of the rain through his nostrils and letting it revive him, unfortunately accustomed to the fact that at his age some things required time to 'get going'.

            Feeling his blood begin to stir, he began padding silently up the staircase, taking care not to make any sound that might wake Soun or his daughters. He would hate to face them at breakfast should they be forced to eavesdrop on Nodoka and him.

            He paused outside of the room he had once shared with his son, and saw the orange glow of the bedside lamp leaking beneath the door, confirming that Nodoka was still awake.

            His smile slipped into a smirk as he performed a short warm up, like an athlete preparing for an Olympic event. He massaged the muscles of his back and hip and rotated the joints of his wrist and neck, stretching out his fingers. He quickly brought a hand up and breathed into it to check his breath. With a satisfied nod, he pushed his glasses further on the bridge of his nose, and pulled at the opening of his gi so that more of his hairy, bloated chest was revealed. Head held high, he slid open the door to the room and swept in.

            The smile dropped from his lips as his eyes locked upon the steely glare of his still clothed wife. His gaze ran across the prim, blue fabric of her kimono as if to confirm its presence with his mind, but then he saw the katana, imposing even in its black scabbard propped against the wall, well within reach of her small hands. He swallowed loudly as he could feel the blood drain from his face.

            "We need to talk, husband," she said simply, in that womanly tone which killed all possibility of argument.

            Heart falling to his stomach he nodded. "Yes dear."

            He trudged to where she waited, feet sliding woefully, stretching out the seconds. However the tightening of her frown sped his pace and he slumped cross-legged across from where she knelt in seiza upon the tatami. Licking dry lips he waited for her to break the silence.

            "Genma, why has our son fled his manly duties?" she asked firmly.

            Genma bit his lip and tugged at the collar of his gi. He cursed her for starting this with a question, and a vague one at that. The range of answers he could give was too vast, and her face a mask of steel. How was he supposed to know what she wanted to hear, and what would keep his head on his shoulders?

            "Um…I would think that he feels that perfecting his studies of the Art is very manly," he ventured quietly.

            Nodoka's eyebrow arched at his statement. _Not a good sign,_ he thought with a frown. 

            "Do you agree with him?" she asked.

            "Of course not," he cried, filling his voice with anger and outrage to amplify his rebuttal, not hard task as he had plenty to spare for his son.

            "And did you tell him about your disapproval?"

            "Yes, and I tried to talk him out of it." Genma was glad of the opportunity to use the truth to his advantage; it made the lies sound more convincing.

            "I did so as well," she admitted. "But he still went. In direct disobedience of both of his parents." Her eyes flashed as she glared daggers at Genma who shrank into his gi. "Respect for his mother and father is an important quality, and should be evident in a 'man-amongst-men'."

            The phrase he had written upon that yellowed and accursed contract, combined with the piercing gaze of his fuming wife caused Genma Saotome's minimal courage to flee in terror. His head hung low as he avoided her eyes, his body reduced to a quivering shell.

            "I tried to teach the boy respect Nodoka, really I did." He whined. "The boy would not listen. It's not my fault." He could feel the sweating begin to soak though the material of his bandana, and tears stung at his eyes.

            "I know," he heard her sigh. Sensing a change in her mood, he dared a darting glance up at her. The steel of her posture still remained, but the cold edge of her anger seemed to have quietened. Genma allowed himself to relax a little, settling back into a more composed position. He kept his guard up though, watching the woman carefully. Her fury was like the glowing embers of a fire: calm but still hot and ready to explode into flame at the slightest provocation. It reminded him of the simmering rage of his son, and deadliness of those eruptions at Jusendo.

            "I have come to realise his lack of respect and manners is my fault, as those are among the things a mothers should teach her son." For a second hurt flickered across her beautiful features and made Genma's own heart ache in tandem. But it was gone in an instant, swallowed beneath the calm surface. 

            "I have tried to remedy this, because in his heart Ranma tries hard to be an honourable man, despite certain influences." Genma winced at her tone, guilt beginning to gnaw in his chest but he quashed it, ruthlessly telling himself that good men fall the hardest. 

            Nodoka gave no sign that she had seen his reaction and continued heedlessly. "I tried to show him where his duty lies, but the boy's arrogance set him on this fool quest of his. I told him that his duty was to the Art, and he twisted that into an excuse to land himself into more trouble." Her voice was scathing.

            Genma considered his wife's words, finally understanding what had prompted Ranma to acknowledge his status as the Anything-goes heir and the responsibilities that came with it. He felt a swell of pride for his son; that the boy had chosen where his duty lay for himself, and not let himself be dictated to by his mother and her traditions. Unfortunately such independence could get them both killed. 

            "What should he have done?" he asked in a small voice, knowing that the question invited condemnation.

            She shot him a sharp glare, "He should marry Akane of course," she spat.

            "Of course," he agreed with a small smile, happy that her support for him on this matter was so strong. He had been worried that she would grow fond of their son's other suitors and knew that she considered that Ranma should have many mistresses; despite the hatred Akane would obviously have for such an idea. He had not minded the idea himself at first, more lovers meant greater chance of an heir, but he knew Akane would be repulsed, thinking the concept perverted, and Ranma had to marry a Tendo. Genma's agreement with Soun was vital, and with Kasumi's affection for Dr Tofu and Nabiki's career aspirations and disrespect of martial arts, Akane was the only horse they could back.

            "I could not stop him from leaving on his journey, especially not after Master Happosai intervened." Her lips twisted into a disgusted sneer, her opinion of the Anything-Goes founder had never been high and there was bad blood between them.

"But I did try to make him face up to his duty to yours and Soun's agreement. But he refused plainly and directly."

            Genma suppressed a shudder as he watched his wife's frame quiver with stifled anger. 

            "I tried to make him reconsider." Her body went limp as she sighed, "but he had obviously thought his excuse through in detail, and I could not fault his reasoning." Nodoka shook her head, obviously feeling that she somehow should have found a flaw. Genma blinked, his son had never been one to exercise logic outside of his fights. That the boy had won over his thoughtful mother disturbed and intrigued Genma all at once.

            "What did he say?" he asked tentatively.

            "That he only wants to marry for love," she snorted. "He would let his own feelings interfere with his duty to the Art and his family, not caring for the folly of such an act."

            The bitterness in her voice was like a whip. He bit at his lip to stop himself jerking like a man flogged, painful memories of his own courtship with Nodoka spinning in his mind. 

Her family had disapproved of his affections, the last scion of a fallen shogun clan who lived the life of a vagabond martial artist under the tutelage of a perverted dwarf, was not considered acceptable for the daughter of a very traditional and ancient clan whose ancestors had played a part in the building of a nation after the bakumatsu. He did not resent them for holding such an opinion; they had been right and were still. But he had been young, filled with naïve thoughts about the honour of the martial arts, and completely blinded by love. He had pursued her regardless of her father's will or his swords, and was delirious when she had returned his feelings. Back then it had seemed like an epic tale come to life, the hero who won the fair maiden despite all odds.

 Truth was he was more villain than hero, but he still loved the woman, and her shame of him wounded deep. But he knew he could bear it, as he had borne many things, because he had gifted the Art with his son. He would bear a great deal more until he was sure that Ranma would do the same.

"He loves Akane, I know he does." Genma lied, the truth was Ranma cared for all three of his fiancés, but he need not say that. 

Her gaze remained doubtful. "I told him that the his duty lay in continuing the school, and that regardless of the agreement, Akane's suit was the most favourable for such a task," she said. "If his future is to be secured and the school to build any sort of reputation, he would need a dojo in which to teach the Art and provide a sense of permanent presence." 

Genma nodded sagely, that was the reason he and Soun had made the engagement pact, to ensure the future of their School. It also provided a cosy place for him and his old friend to retire and live comfortably as their two children and their heirs carried on their legacy and did all the work; but he told himself that that was just a fortuitous consequence.       

"Ranma argued this point, saying that another dojo could be built. He also said that Akane's contribution to the growth of the style would be minimal as her techniques are already part of the school, and that his other two suitors offer new talents and that their skills in combat exceed Akane's."

Genma cursed his son and wondered when the brat had become so crafty. He had always considered the skill difference between Akane and her rivals a minor point as Ranma was more than talented enough to teach the art without assistance once he knew how, and that he would continue to protect her if the chef or Amazon became dangerous. That his son had weighed such an ability difference and used it to justify his actions spoke volumes of his commitment to his new path.

"I take it from your expression that this is true?" Nodoka asked with a raised her eyebrow. He nodded wordlessly.

"I thought so. Not that I'm surprised, especially when it comes to Shampoo. Her culture and laws respect strength above all, and then there is her Grandmother. That old woman is wise, cunning, and from what I've heard, a living archive of mysterious techniques and powers. It is said that she is equal to the Master." Again her lips tightened. Genma continued nodding, it was all true.

 "Be that as it may," Nodoka said firmly. "We can not let this stand in the way of that which honour demands. One does not make excuses to duty. One only does what is required. If we can not change Ranma's mind, then we must change the situation."

Genma's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?" he asked tentatively. The resolution in Nodoka's face worried him; she was planning something, and that to him was reason to be wary.

"You, husband, must train Akane."

"WHAT?" he yelled suddenly, earning a tight frown of disapproval from his wife. 

"I'm sure you heard me perfectly well, dear."

" B…but she's a girl." He spluttered, her brow furrowed as her grimace deepened.

"I'm aware of that, Genma," she said. "But despite your chauvinistic opinions, the role of a martial artist's wife has always been that of a warrior. Tradition dictates that as the wife of a martial artist, the maintenance and defence of the home is Akane's responsibility. Judging from the powerful adversaries that our son is said to attract, her current level of training would be insufficient for such a task. The escort of a Samurai must be expected to fight for her husband's honour in his absence, and must also care for the family blades." 

Genma swallowed the lump that had grown in his throat as he glanced at the katana that leaned upon the wall. He felt a thick bead of sweat slide slowly down his cheek. 

"Also, Akane is the only official student of the Tendo dojo and the Anything-goes school." she continued,  "With Ranma gone the task of answering challenges and defending the school is hers, as is only right as his fiancé, and so she must be prepared for such combat. If we should be challenged tomorrow by some wandering fighter, or worse by one of Ranma's other suitors, we would lose much more than our sign. We would lose our future."

Genma's shoulders sagged as he stared at the floor, a nervous scowl forming lines upon his face and at his eyes. Nodoka smirked.

"Unless of course you would rather answer the challenges yourself."

Genma jerked upright with a start as if hit by lightning, staring at her with wild, frightened eyes. The woman's smirk widened as he squirmed. He fidgeted for a moment, mouth twisted and brow furrowed. His eyes dropped from Nodoka's cool gaze, and his hands wrung at his gi.

"I can't teach her," he said in a weak voice. "She is Soun's student, I would need his permission." 

Nodoka shrugged. "I'm sure he'll give it when we explain that it is to secure the union of our families and his dojo."

Knowing he was trapped, Genma slumped with a drawn out sigh and nodded his head in a small, almost imperceptible gesture.

"I'll teach her," he grunted.

The smirk grew into a warm, loving smile and the steel of her posture faded into a serene calm. Her shoulders relaxed and she knelt, proudly yet with tenderness, her hands folded upon her lap as she looked at him almost meekly.

"Thank you husband," she said softly, inclining her head into a gracious bow.

Genma blinked rapidly as his jaw dropped. He continued to gawp, pole-axed as Nodoka moved forwards upon her knees, so that she could wrap him in her gentle arms. She sagged against his large frame, her body pressing upon his as she laid her head upon his broad shoulder. He could not stop his mouth curving into a small smile as he brought his large, callused hands to wind around the hollow of her waist. He heard her sigh contently into his ear and press her lips to his neck, sending a shiver through him. 

But his eyes remained open as his wife enveloped him in her embrace, and stared intently as the bound sword that lay in the corner, as she pushed him onto his back.

The nights were hot in Thailand, even in winter. The clammy grip of the humid air clung to everything, the warm moisture hanging stagnant in the darkness. The white walls of the buildings glowed ethereal silver in the moonlight, the pale disc inciting the wailing song of the cicada and the subtle hiss of the snakes. The thick leaves of the trees, rustled gently in the windless night, moving with the teaming, nocturnal wild.

The trees began to move with greater ardour as the creatures of the night began to panic at the percussive cracks and thuds that rang in the air. The people of the village continued to sleep with the blissful ignorance and false security of humanity, while the animals fled, their higher array of senses more sensitive to the building power crackling in the atmosphere.

Ryu Kumon continued to train long into the night, pounding into the wooden man with his fists and knees. His knuckles were swollen and red, the course skin broken, but he did not feel it. The souls of his feet were abraded by the coarse white stone floor of the Kai Muay, but he paid them no mind. All that mattered was the dummy that shook and creaked with every impact of his hardened shins. 

            The Thai fighters had laughed when he had built the bulky apparatus, thinking that the idea of striking, a piece of dead wood as if it were a real opponent ludicrous. They were satisfied with their heavy bags and hard sparring. However, there were techniques that could not be trained upon the bag or used upon a partner, not if you or anyone else ever wished to spar with them again.

            They had seen little of merit outside the brutal art of Muay Thai that every man in Thailand longed to master. It had only taken one demonstration of the dummy's uses to change their minds. Soon they were all asking to use it, and Ryu had let them, smirking in satisfaction as all but the fiercest limped away after the first few blows, and some had even seen rubbing salves into their amassed bruises. 

Muay Thai was a simple yet violent martial art, its exponents known worldwide as being some of the greatest and toughest fighters in the world. However the training mostly stressed the conditioning of the shins, fists, knees and elbows as weapons. The palms of the hands, as well as the forearms were not built to the same durability; and after simulating powerful blocks and parries upon the three sturdy poles protruding from the dummies chest that served as its arms, deep bruises and shallow cuts were the result. Ryu did not have the heart to tell them that he was not using his full strength, not yet.

            They had accepted the mokujin as part of a balanced regime now, and often asked many question about its uses, manufacture and history as well as proposed modifications. One question had presented it self in the beginning but had faded when the only reply was grit teeth and furious eyes. _Why did the Mokujin have a pigtail?_

            He stared at the accessory now, a simple affair made of twisted and bundled straw, died black to resemble the one that had inspired it. It was there to remind him of his mission.

            He slammed his fist into the dummies face hard enough to split the wood and make the structure quiver.

            He had rushed recklessly into his fight with Ranma Saotome, and though the battle had been magnificent, the price had been high. Ryu did not carry any spite against the Anything-goes heir for his defeat, but the true weight of the oath he had made as a consequence was crushing.

            Ryu Kumon was a martial artist to the core, never truly alive unless the rush of battle was singing in his veins. He had promised to restore his family name, yet without the fire of the warrior he would have long since given up the hardship. Those flames as much as his fathers last words, had driven him to mastery of the forbidden art of the Yamasen-ken. 

            Such mastery came at a price. Ryu had been so focussed in his study of the Yamasen-ken, that it had become all he knew. His entire fighting style had revolved around those techniques, his whole life did. The way he moved, the way he stood and spoke, even his dreams; all stemmed from the Yamasen-ken. Even his memories of the first martial arts lessons given to him by his father had become melded and inseparable from his solitary training under the guidance of Genma Saotome's scrolls. Yet, he was bound by his honour and his word- to never practise that dangerous form of Anything-goes martial arts. 

            It was impossible. Those techniques had been all he had for so long. His only memory, his only solace afters the destruction of his dojo, his only friend. To give up the Yamasen-ken was asking him to give up breathing, to abandon everything he knew his life to be and to forsake who he was.

            The blow had hit Ryu hard, yanking the ground from under him and letting him fall into a chasm of rage, despair and regret. He hated the Saotomes for forcing that promise upon him. He despised himself more for agreeing to it without a thought like the arrogant fool he was. The realisation that he had nothing other than the Yamsen-ken; that there was nothing to his life other than skill in a combat art that was originally intended to rob homes and mug people, had left a gnawing pain in the pit of his stomach.

            As many had before him, he sought comfort at the bottom of a bottle, the fiery taste of liquor being the only thing that distracted him from the bitter tang of defeat and allowed him to forget his woes. In the morning however, his pain would return with reinforcements as he woke to sunlight that scorched his reddened eyes and in alley that he had never before seen, yet with the familiar scent of vomit burning his nostrils. When his thoughts finally came to Nodoka Saotome, the kind woman whose care he had stolen from her true son, and imagined her frowning at wreck he had become, it became too much. He would seek out another drink, and the cycle would repeat itself.

            His youth denied him his supply of alcohol at all but the seediest parts of Tokyo. Driven by his sorrow, he had become a regular customer in the dim-lighted, blood and filth stained dens of the city, calmly knocking back his medicine while junkies shot up in the dark corners and the bar tender mopped up the broken glass and teeth.

            In such places a man can not remain a spectator for long.

            Ryu could not remember what he had done to piss this guy off; perhaps he had done nothing and the man wanted attention, perhaps he was drinking the wrong brand of whisky or had slammed his glass down too loudly. It could have been anything or nothing, all he knew was a large, meaty hand had hauled him from his stool and he was staring upwards at the shaven head of a huge, angry man with a thick moustache framing a wide mouth full of gapped, yellowed teeth and vile tobacco breath. Ryu had said nothing, but did not need to as his body bloated and unleashed a loud belch straight into the face of the towering stranger. The man's beady eyes narrowed and Ryu watched him wind up a haymaker with his ham-sized fist.

            Instinct moved him though the alcoholic haze. He staggered to the left, slipping clumsily out of the punches path, his arms rising and sweeping apart in a scissor motion, one knocking the incoming fist upwards, whilst the other had slapped down the assailants other hand, destroying any attempt of a guard. He pivoted woodenly on his left foot so that he could spin the other leg into a powerful, ki charged roundhouse kick. It ploughed into the large man's belly and sent him flying backwards to slam into the wall of the bar, plasterboard cracking in the impact.

            As the rush of adrenaline purged the alcohol from his system, the events replaying in his rapidly clearing mind, he made an ecstatic realisation. The technique he had used was a revision of the Mouko Kaimon Ha of the Yamasen-ken. It used the same concept, knocking aside the opponents arms with your hand to leave him unprotected for your crushing kick, but it had not been the same move as described in the scrolls. In fact it did not resemble the original attack at all.

            The revelation had stuck him like a bolt of lightning that electrified his mind. He had been given a true epiphany. The oath he had made to Ranma Saotome forbade him from using the techniques of the Yamsen-ken, but the founding philosophy of the method, its strategy and principle were still functional. He would use them to found a new martial art, one superior to the Yamasen-ken, the Umisen-ken or any other art that would ever be created. It would be the supreme fighting method, one that would live up to the memory of his father and restore his family honour. He had even given it a name; _Kumon Ryu Kyoku-ken, _the art of the ultimate fist.

            However to remain true to his word, his new style would have to be completely independent from the Anything-goes school, with different movements, different stances and different attacks. To truly be rid of the Yamasen-ken, he would have to unlearn the Saotome Ryu.

            Ryu blasted a barrage of roundhouse kicks into the dummy, aiming them low at the base and striking hard with his shins. A smile found its way onto his face through the pants and grunts of his effort. He had come a long way in the last year.  

            He had begun in central Tokyo, he had enrolled at a Kyokushinkai dojo, hoping to learn what he had heard was the 'strongest form of Karate.' He had adapted to the style quickly, but it was not enough. The techniques were too reminiscent of the Anything-Goes movements; the kicks were delivered the same way and the punches thrown in a similar manner as to those he already employed. The Musabetsu Kakuto Ryu was still a Japanese style at its core, and its foundations were shared by the many forms of unarmed combat to have flowered upon the Land of the Rising Sun.

            If Ryu was to succeed in leaving the Anything-Goes mark behind him, he would have to leave Japan. Deciding that China was unsuitable, as the arts of Japan had descended from the old Tang styles, he had set his sights south and journeyed on.

            He studied where he could, challenging the fighters he found, absorbing their techniques and strategies from painful first hand experience. The understanding and knowledge of many attacks seeping into him as he lay panting, bruised from their power. He had found Masters and had learnt all he could as fast as he could take it, training the movements through endless and agonising repetition, until they came without thought, burning his previous methods from memory.

             He had learnt many things as he travelled, relentlessly focussed upon his mission. In the Philippines he had learnt the deadly unarmed techniques of Kali. In Malaysia he had fought against experts of Pentjak Silat, making their art his. Several months ago he had completed his tutelage in Burma, under the guidance of three renowned Masters of Bando, before hiking into Siam to try his hand at the brutal sport of Muay Thai.

            Like a master smith he had created his weapon. With his own will as the fire, his body as the ore, and his heart as the forge he had begun. Each of these styles he had moulded and shaped until they were one with his own method and his own designs. Tempered and made strong but flexible through the house analogy of the Yamasen-ken strategy, he had crafted the iron core of what would become the greatest fighting art in existence. Now what remained was to polish and sharpen the blade until it shone with lethal promise. 

He would do that through combat, each victory would serve as a whetstone on which his skills would be sharpened. At then for the final test of the edge, he would defeat Ranma Saotome and claim the sign and the honour of the Anything-Goes School of Martial Arts.

Akane shivered as she entered the dojo. Winters' grip had crept into the training hall, its touch cooling the polished wood of the floor until lances of ice shot through her feet despite the thin tatami covering. The hall was illuminated by lanterns that emitted a soft orange glow, the golden halo of dawn just beginning to slide above the horizon.

Genma sat with his legs crossed upon the floor despite the cold, arms folded across his wide chest. He glowered at the doorway as Akane entered, a grimace twisting the tightened line of his mouth.

"I said ten minutes," he grunted sourly.

Akane ignored the remark, returning his glare in equal measure.

"What is this all about Uncle Saotome?" she demanded.

The large man's frowned deepened and his brow furrowed, eyes narrowing as he stared intently through his spectacles, somehow managing to look down upon her even as he sat upon the mats.

"I'm here to train you," he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Obvious or not, Akane was stunned, her mouth working soundlessly but no words would form in her numbed mind. Her eyes then narrowed to slits, tilting her head to glare sidelong at the bald man.

"Why?" she asked softly, drawing the word out     

"Why not!"

Her teeth ground against each other at the reply. She stomped forwards, hands balled into tight fists upon her hips as she frowned at Genma. As she approached he stood quickly, as if unwilling to concede an advantage in height. He met her glare with calm eyes that seemed to look beyond her face. She broke the silence with a snort.

"I thought girls lacked the strength and dedication to learn the art," she recited acerbically. She knew exactly were Ranma had learnt his chauvinist attitudes. Her words had no effect on Genma. His folded arms and condescending gaze grated at her nerves.

"You're not a girl," he grunted.

"Not a girl," she spat through her clenched teeth; images of Ranma mocking her danced through her brain. Now his father seemed to be picking of where the son had left off. "WHAT AM I THEN? SOME KIND OF TOMBOY? A FLAT-CHESTED KLUTZ?" she snarled.

For once Genma refused to be cowed, grimacing in the wake of her rage. "You're a martial artist." He arched an eyebrow as he looked down at her. "Aren't you?" he added.

"Of course I am," she huffed.

"The art does not know genders as my sons curse has proved." His lips twisted for an instant, but then the sneer was gone without a trace and he continued with no pause. "If you truly are a martial artist, then you must act as one, and martial artists train." Genma fixed her with a hawk-like glare through his spectacles. "Ranma has gone, you can't hide behind him anymore."

"I have never hidden behind anyone," she hissed, her body quivered as her hands clutched at her belt as if ready to strangle the stocky man with it.

"Maybe not," he conceded, "But it was Ranma who fought the battles, not you. The matches you did accept, you lost, and it was Ranma who regained victory. Not you. This is your dojo, it is time you defended it." Genma drove the words in like nails.

"I can defend it just fine," she protested, but her voice was small and weak, doubts nagging at her mind and robbing her of her convictions.

"Maybe you can," Genma shrugged. "But that's not what anyone else thinks, and that's what really matters, isn't it?"  His lips curled into a smirk. "Without Ranma there is very little to stop Shampoo or Ukyo challenging you for the engagement. Or another dojo destroyer; who wants your sign. They think you weak and unskilled; they won't even consider you a threat. But I can change that, with my training they'll know that you're no pushover. They willll respect your skills and so will Ranma."

It was the offer she had been wanting for two years, a chance for someone to acknowledge her as a martial artist, and not as an observer surrounded and outclassed by her peers. She longed to be the fighter, not the prize, to fight side by side with a man and to keep him from harm, rather than being constantly protected or kidnapped, to finally be known as a warrior, not just a fiancé, to have people come to her for help rather than only being asked where Ranma was. 

However the offer had come from Genma Saotome, and though she was fond of her father's friend, the man could not be trusted.

"I can handle any challenger," she declared proudly. "I don't need your help."

Genma's glare never wavered. "If that's true, you have nothing to lose, yet much to gain and much to prove."

"Nothing to lose, except my sanity or any liking for cats." she snapped.

Genma stiffened at her words, back jerking rigid as his frown deepened. His eyes seemed hollow for a brief moment, before fires sprang in his irises and his face became harsh like jagged stone. His jaw tightened but all he asked was a simple, pointed, question.

"Does the Art mean so little to you?"

The question echoed in her mind like the clang of a thrown gauntlet. Akane forced as much iron as she could into her brown eyes, willing her gaze into a blade and her expression into hard granite.

"When do we start?"

Genma smiled, but the expression did not touch his eyes. His stare ran her up and down, appraising every inch of her. With a smirk he bowed at the waist, a small but profound gesture.

"Right now," he replied. 

Then the grin dropped from his lips, and his face became harsh and expressionless. He seemed to radiate an invisible aura of power, but not the strength or ability that was present Cologne or Happosai's spirit, or the raw energy of Ranma's ki. This was subtle, yet intimidating, full of force and command that she never would have expected to feel in the presence of a coward like Genma. It was the aura of a sensei.

He pointed to the empty space at the centre of the training hall, "Show me Naihanchi," he commanded.

Akane bristled "What? Naihanchi?"

"Is there a problem?" he asked firmly, his tone forbidding any answer.

Akane swallowed her protests, muffling a growl low in her throat, and stalked to the spot he had indicated taking up the ready position.

Naihanchi was the first kata that was taught to a student of the Anything-Goes after the first month of training. An ancient form taught in Okinawa, it was part of many styles in some form. Akane hated it.

 It was short and basic, a mere thirty-six movements, containing no kicks and the  only simplest blocks and punches. All of the techniques were performed in the same stance, a low knock-kneed posture, with the toes pointing in and pelvis raised, which always forced Akane's buttocks to clench uncomfortably (adding suspicions about why Happosai had included the kata in his school). The footwork was tedious and outdated; all robotic sidesteps that was intended to prevent the practitioner from tripping over his clog-sandals. 

She tugged at her black belt, and frowned, this kata was beneath her.

"Wouldn't you rather I did something more challenging?" she asked. "Like Gojushiho or Buraja-Strappu" Those were two of her favourite patterns, despite the unfortunate name of the second one. _At least it proves its an Anything-Goes original._

Genma shook his head. "One should begin at the beginning," he said flatly. "Naihanchi will be fine."

Akane sighed; she had agreed to his training, she could not turn back without losing her pride as a martial artist. She brought her feet together, hands held in front of her waist, left over right. Breathing in slow and deep she lifted her hands to inscribe a circle in the air. When her palms met again she lifted them level with her lips, turning them over so that they were palms down as she pushed them back to her belt knot. Her head turned sweeping her gaze, first left and then as it arced to the right she sidestepped quick, crossing one foot in front of the other, and stuck out hard with a right knife hand blow. Thus the kata began. 

She moved through the pattern swiftly, her body instinctively going through the motions. Her attacks were light and fast, flicking out her blocks and punches, the fabric of her gi snapping faintly. She ended upon the spot from which she started, assuming the ready position, waiting to begin the next kata.

Her teacher had not moved, his face expressionless. 

"Again," he snapped.

Gulping back a sour grunt, Akane began again. This time she put greater speed and force into the kata, she lashed each blow into the air around her, her sleeves cracking like thunder. She expelled her breath forcefully from her gritted teeth, and yelled her kiai loud as the force of her elbow strike bore into her palm upon execution. 

Genma remained unimpressed, and ordered her to repeat the kata twice more. She could understand why, with each attempt she could feel her movements become more fluid and easy, the repetition drilling the sequence into her muscles. It was his flat tone and cold stare that grated upon her nerves; his gaze piercing through every inch of her, as observant yet as expressionless as a camera. There was something missing, and only he knew what.

"Why don't you tell me where I'm going wrong, rather than continue to waste time? " she snapped as he opened her mouth to form the command 'again'.

He grimaced, eyes narrowing behind his glasses at her outburst

" I was hoping that you'd work that out for yourself." The elder Saotome grunted. "True martial arts can not be spoon fed and I don't intend to tell you everything. Some things you have to learn on your own."   

Akane's teeth ground, the sound scraping loudly in her own ears, but remained silent. Genma shifted slight to the right, and cleared his throat with a pointed, guttural sound.

"Your stance was too high, and your balance and rooting suffered. Your breathing was harsh and unnatural, and your movements were tense and robotic. You tightened your muscles to add force yet lost your grace." Each complaint was fuel to Akane's fire. Her fists were white, quivering as Genma tore her performance apart.

            "There was some improvement as you repeated the kata, so I believe that those faults can be phased out by more practise." he said with a sigh, before fixing her with as intense glower. "However there was something lacking in your efforts, something that was missing from the kata every time. 

"_Kime_: focus! 

"There was no urgency to your technique, no feeling. You performed the kata like a dance not as a martial art. You acted like a programmed machine, simply going through the motions completely devoid of any meaning or intent. Each of your moves, were the motions of a cobra without its venom, you hissed and bit but there was no danger, no desire to defeat your opponent, no threat."

"What opponent, its just a kata." Akane snorted, unable to keep silent. "And a basic one at that."

Genma recoiled as if struck, head jerking and eyes wide. Then his jaw tightened and his eyes became sharp steel behind the lenses of his glasses. "Just a kata?" he hissed, sounding scandalised as if someone had suggested he get a job. "Just a kata?" he repeated, voice rising as his face reddened.

Akane said nothing but met his anger with her a defiant glare.

"Kata are the basis of martial arts." Genma declared. "Each individual pattern describes an entire method of combat, displaying the use of the most effective techniques honed after centuries of training."

"Yeah, centuries." Akane spat dryly. "Kata are outdated, I don't wear stupid clogs so why do I need to learn to fight in them." 

"That just demonstrates how little you know, girl" he said in acid tones, his lips curling into a smirk. Akane could not stop her lips peeling back as she growled.   

"Since I doubt you trust my years of experience, enough to believe what I say." Genma proclaimed loftily. "I suppose I will have to teach you by example."

The stocky man sank into the Naihanchi stance, legs twisted inwards so that his knees faced each other and his feet formed a triangle with his toes pointing at the apex. His ample weight pressed through his legs making a solid foundation like the base of a pyramid. His fists rested against his waist, spreading out his broad shoulders as his swollen paunch heaved over his belt knot.

To Akane that stomach was a bright, red bulls eye.

"Well," he grunted. "Show me I'm wrong." The challenge in his voice was unmistakable.

With a wordless kiai Akane shot forwards over the small space that separated her from the Saotome master. Her foot snapped out with a kick, the ball of her foot shooting towards Genma's bulging gut. The attack found only air as he stepped forwards, twisting sideways and blading his body towards her as the kick flew past. Still pushing forwards she used her momentum by following up with a hard right punch. He deflected and caught her thrusting fist easily with his rear hand before countering. She grunted as a harsh blow jarred her collarbone. Hissing through gritted teeth as pain shot along the marrow she could not hope to defend as he grabbed her roughly by the scruff of her gi, other hand fastening on to her lapel, and flung her unceremoniously to the mat.

Akane landed upon her side with a groan, the fall stealing her wind. Glaring up at her opponent, she saw him mimic the defence he had just used. She was shocked yet not surprised to recognise the movements as from the Naihanchi kata. It was not exactly the same, he had used the protruding bone of his wrist to strike her collarbone and not his knife hand, and had neglected the elbow smash; however the technique had still used the same motions, and in a way she had never seen before._ That can be used as a throw?_ she thought as she recalled his use for what to her had seemed a punch.

Pulling herself to a sitting position, and rubbing furtively at her shoulder joint, she scowled at Genma.

"That was a one-shot trick," she snorted.

The older man arched a questioning eyebrow. "You really think so?" he asked in a dry tone.

Akane had no reply, and so continued to stare daggers at the man from the floor, almost daring him to mock her further. He did not, instead joining her on the tatami, crossing his legs as he sat and watching her with an intense, hawk-like glare. The soft, long shadows of the dawn light began to dance upon the dojo walls as the sun climbed into the sky.

"Do you know why Naihanchi is the first kata taught in the Anything-goes school?" he asked after a while.

Surprised by the sudden question Akane frowned. Genma waited silently, face firm and without expression. There was no sign of it being a trick question, and the silence was beginning to hang in the air, so she answered as she had been taught. 

"It is a simple pattern which provides a good introduction to kata and its concepts, and builds a solid foundation in the basic blocks and punches while developing a strong, balanced stance." Her chin rose proudly as she waited for Genma's reply and rebuttal.

The large man tilted his head, eyes rolling upwards behind his glasses as if trying to see his own brain. He made a small, thoughtful sound, a low mumble before shaking his head as his eyes locked upon her through hooded lids.

"No, those are benefits of the training certainly, but not its true purpose."

Akane grimaced, she had expected a sour reply, and received far better than she had expected from Ranma's stern father, but the logic and plain tone of the response still rankled.

"Then enlighten me," she snorted.

"As I have already said, each kata represents a complete method of fighting. Naihanchi is the perfect introduction to the Art as it contains very simple techniques, which present the novice with the fundamental principles behind combat. The movements of the kata are basic yet effective enough to teach the new student how to defend themselves against untrained attackers. They contain the key strategies that form the foundation of future skills employed against skilled Artists. The kata even contains advanced manoeuvres and tactics such as carefully aimed strikes to vital part of the body and joint manipulation, as I have shown you." He stared pointedly at her hand as it clasped her collarbone. It blazed with the reminder and she rubbed at it gently, sure that it would bruise nastily.

"But the kata is so short," she said weakly, confusion and doubt leeching at her tone. "How can it include so much?"

Genma smirked knowingly. "The written word can be small, and books short, but they can still inspire great things. The discs that Nabiki carries for her computer appear small, but I'm told that they hold a great deal of data. Kata is just another form of storing information, a great deal of it, and compressing it so that it may be easily learned. It is not the movement or the techniques that hold the knowledge but the theories behind them. All you see are the movements, a punch there, a kick here, you must look beyond that and ask yourself, _would that work in a real fight?_ _Would it be effective?_ If the answer is yes, then ask yourself _why is it effective? _Was it the stance you use, the part of the hand you hit with, where you would aim the strike, how you moved before the strike?"

"And if the answer is no?"

He shrugged, "Then the movement is not what you thought it was? If it its not a punch perhaps it's a grab for a throw. Sometimes the creators of a kata hid the true intent of their movements, so that idle observers would not know the techniques."

"Then how did they expect their students to understand?" Akane asked with an angry grunt.

"Kata are made by warriors for warriors. A martial artist should understand the true meaning of the kata instinctively."

His expression was still black and stony, but Akane could feel the challenge in his words, knew it from the probe of his gaze.  _A martial artist should…_he had said, questioning her abilities again. Everyone forever doubted her training, mocking it. , Her fists quivered in her laps as she clenched them tighter. She would show him, she would master the kata.

"The movements of Naihanchi is a whole fighting system," he continued, "and like all systems it has a strategy, a plan of attack with which to gain victory. Master that strategy and you can apply it to any technique, you can make it your own. That is the heart of the Anything-goes school." 

Akane felt her own chin rise at the pride that gilded the man's tone. The school was everything to him. She felt the stirring of her own ardour, yet stuffed it down and continued to probe Genma's knowledge.

"So why is Naihanchi so important?" she asked. "What is its great strategy?"

Genma scowled in what seemed to be irritation at her question. "Think about it, girl," he grunted harshly. "It is obvious by its very name. Naihanchi does exactly what it says on the tin."

Her jaw tightened as she bristled, but she fought to maintain her fragile composure, lips compressing to a firm line as she swallowed an enraged yell. 

Her mind set to unravelling his clue. _It's name?_ Naihanchi meant 'to stand upon uneven ground.' She felt her bows furrow as she frowned, it told her nothing. Running through the kata in her head, she summoned a mental picture of her father demonstrating the form to three little girls in crisp white gi. Akane remembered watching her father move, while her older sisters looked on beside her, Kasumi with a patient smile, and Nabiki with undisguised disinterest. Her own eyes must have been wide as she recalled studying his every, graceful motion in enthralled detail, her heart panged by wonder. Her youthful awe served her well, as her father's movements replayed in her mind, like the screening of an old silent movie. Then the answer blossomed for her, a muted buzz that was soon ringing loud and the within her brain.

_To stand!... The stance!!!_

The penny dropped with a clunk as she were a vending machine, the solution tumbling out of her as fast as her mouth could give the words form.

"Naihanchi uses a low, stable stance and small movements so that the martial artist would not lose his balance and fall when attacked upon or rough or jagged battlefield. That's the Art," she cried.

If she had given such a confident response to her father, his thin face would have split from ear-to-ear as a proud grin beamed through his moustache. Genma merely nodded.

"That is right," he said flatly. "It is believed that Naihanchi was developed from techniques and tactics adapted when fighting on the raised ground between the flooded paddy that were common in southern China and Okinawa."

Akane drew breath to contest the use of such methods, but Genma overrode her before she could speak.

"Before you start whining about the lack of rice fields in Nerima, the story merely explains the inspiration for the kata, not its uses." 

Akane scowled at the use of the word whine and at being cut off, while Genma adjusted his glasses before resuming.

"The fighting method described by Naihanchi is a form of defensive combat that its fought in close quarters with an attacker. It uses simple blocks and body positioning to deflect an attack without needing large leaps and dodges. The small side steps bring the user within the enemies guard, while slipping around or parrying any attack with little effort. Then the opponent is dispatched with simple, but effective close range strike such as hook punches and uppercuts to vital areas, as you no doubt recognise in the movements of the kata. You experienced the effectiveness of this technique when you tried to hit me."

That was some understatement, and only now could she see the genius of his defence. He had knocked her kick aside without even shifting his stance and then evaded her punch by turning his body sideways and removing her target area. By stepping across he had then slipped too close for her to cover his return attack. It was brilliant, and almost to hard to believe that such an art was contained within the simple kata she had dismissed as the stuff of novices. 

"However," Genma continued, his voice growing louder for a moment to bring her from her thoughts. "At such close quarters, it is very easy and probable for you foe to seize hold of you or your clothes and try to wrestle you to the floor. Which is why the stance is very stable and rooted, and the kata include escapes from such grabs, and takedowns of its own that can be used in such situations.

"This method of fighting is perfect for beginners who have not yet acquired the skill to block and dodge attacks effectively, as well as experienced warriors who specialise in such tactics. In fact this kata contains so much information for such fighters, both in the many interpretations of its movements and variations of its principle that it has been said that it would take a lifetime to truly master. But I think I've managed it." A small ghost of a small curved the elder Saotome's lips.

Akane stubbornly refused to be drawn in. "If that's true then why do you not use it?" she asked, arching her eyebrow in lofty curiosity. "If you have mastered the way of fighting with little movements, then why do you and Ranma leap around on the roof like rabid bullfrogs?" She was surprised to hear her voice harden, it was not as if she wanted to copy them.

"That is more the boy's fault than mine," he said with a sour grimace. "I taught the boy the kata, in fact I taught him nothing else for the first two years that I trained him." He kept on talking despite the dropping of Akane's jaw. "The boy learnt the kata and its secrets well enough, but he lacked my hearty constitution-"

"You mean your fat," she broke in earning a sharp glare from the large man. Her lips twitched as she fought to keep a straight face.

"As I was saying," he said firmly, scowling at her. "Ranma lacked my _constitution_-" he repeated, biting out the word for emphasis "-and could not bring out the full potential of the method. So I wisely began stressing jumps and sweeping dodges and other evasive tactics to enable him to weave between attacks and out-manoeuvre much stronger opponents with subtle body movements. I had to use such method when I sparred with him, at first to make him aware of the techniques so that he could adopt them himself, and then to keep up with him. The Naihanchi style of fighting is defensive and if I tried it the cocky brat would just walk off and wait it out." The clenching of Genma's teeth and the balling of his fists told Akane what the father thought of his son's counter-strategy.

"Nonetheless," he said after a moment. "I still made Ranma perform the Naihanchi, again and again, night and day, until I was satisfied that he truly understood it. When he was fourteen he proved he did by creating his own variant of the kata, changing the techniques and adapting the principles to suit his own, more mobile form of martial arts. He called it Maihanchi."

"Ranma created his own kata," Akane cried, impressed and incensed both at once.

"Not created but modified it to his needs, as the heir of the Anything-goes school should. However he was only fourteen, and it takes a high level of mastery to do such a thing." 

"I thought you said Naihanchi would take a lifetime to master?" Akane muttered dryly.

Genma glowered at her. "I did not say that, someone else did. Hironori Otsuka, a renowned karate master. But he was not on the Anything-goes school level and he did not know Ranma." The last part was added in a quiet murmur; whether in pride, sorrow, or jealously; Akane could not tell.

"I thought that it was a taboo to change the old kata, at least that's what Dad always said." Akane frowned; much of what her father had taught her was beingcalled into doubt by what her new teacher had said. "He said that kata served as a link to the traditions and spirits of the past masters."

Genma chuckled, "That sounds like something that Soun would say." A smile began to creep upon his lips. "Tell me, did he also say that kata was a form of meditation that taught spiritual focus not combat, or something like that?"

Akane's eyes widened and her mouth hung open. She nodded wordlessly, her father had indeed told her that, using the same words.

The chuckles turned into full-blown guffaws, Genma pressing his hands to his belly. "Same old Soun," he managed between laughs. His shoulders shook as he chortled, and Akane growled.

"What are you laughing at?" she challenged. "My father is a great martial artist."      

The laughter stopped dead and Genma's nostalgic smile dropped grumbled from his face. "Indeed he is," the man said gravely. "But not as good as he could have been," he added in a soft voice. By his downcast eyes and quiet tone, he seemed to be mourning something. Something lost to the past. 

His gaze then rose to meet Akane's eyes, watching her for a long, silent moment as his expression of sorrow hardened to granite, but his eyes remained hollow.

"I was not mocking your father, Akane. I trained with the man for years, suffered the Master's trials with him, and I know him better than anyone. He used to say the same thing, back then when we practised the kata together." 

Genma drew a deep breath and his eyes became unfocussed, as if looking at something distant; looking through the doors of time.

"Your father has always been a skilled martial artist, passionate about the Art and his training. That is why, like myself, he was chosen by the legendary Happosai to be his pupil." The old fighter's brow furrowed, as if remembering an unsolved puzzle from the past, returned to haunt him.

"Though the two of us trained intensively, both determined to become masters of the Arts, in many ways we were as different as night an day. Orphaned as a child I chose the warrior path for myself, to honour my ancestors. You father was pushed into it by family obligation as the heir of the Tendo line. It was in fact his own father who had sent him to learn from the Master." 

"Are you saying that Dad never wanted to be a martial artist?" Akane scoffed.

"I'm saying he never chose the path himself," Genma replied with a grimace. "It worked out for the best, since as I said your father loved the Art, but in a way so very different for my own fervour. A way that, to the Master, was lacking."

"What way?" Akane inquired tightly.

"For your father, the martial arts were never about fighting, but rather about the perfection and health of the body, mind and spirit. He lacked the spark of a warrior, the desire to test one's strength and skill in battle, the spark that so defines people such as my son. It was the art not the combat that he found most satisfying. For Soun exercises such a sparring were a way to strengthen his body, and kata was merely a way to focus the mind and synchronise breathing. Where I sought the deeper meanings of the forms, the principles and techniques of combat, to him the perfect performance of a kata was an end to itself."

Akane glared through the corners of her eyes. "Are you saying that my father, could not fight, that he was a coward?" she asked with menacing softness.

"Of course not," he protested loudly. "When it was time to fight, your father was deadly, a good man to have with you in a scrape." By his tone of voice and from what she knew of the man before her, Akane could tell that such scrapes were frequent. "However he would only fight as a last resort, if there was no other way. Often he broke up the brawls before they started by scaring his foes away with his aura, which is how he developed the Demon Head attack that he used so much on my son."

Akane wanted to contest the explanation behind her father's technique, but it was far too logical. Instead she challenged another part of the story.

"If he was such a good fighter why do you think that he could be better?"

Genma sighed. "The same reason he never teaches or practises the art any more, and why he can be so emotional; the same reason for a hundred other regrets for both of us. The Master."

"What does the old fart have to do with it?" 

"Soun's beliefs worked in counter to the Master and his training, and so his skills never blossomed under Happosai's tutelage." He pushed his spectacles further up on the bridge of his nose, pausing to rub at his eyes. "I know very little about the Master's unnaturally long life, but I do know that it was hard and painful. For that is the core of the old man's convictions, and the driving concept behind the training in the Anything-Goes School of Martial Arts: to become stronger through adversity.

"However your father ambitions did not involve becoming stronger or more skilled than others, and so what to the master was training may have been torture to Soun. It did make him a skilled and powerful martial artist, but it weakened him in other ways. I think that it was harder on him than me." 

That was a shockingly out-of-character confession for the old panda. After a lingering sigh, and a slow shake of his head Genma added, "If it were not for your mother, I'm not sure how he would have survived."

"My mother?" Akane gasped.

Genma stiffened at the question, seemingly regretting having spoken, and then he grimaced. "When we were young men, your father and I, not much older than you are now, I began to notice the stain the training was putting on Soun. He was becoming withdrawn and melancholy, not the weeping that he does now, but a more private brooding. His skills began to suffer, his heart was a never in our spars and he did little else but his kata, seeking peace in the movements. Hoping to cheer my friend up, I asked Nodoka, who had recently come into our lives like a bolt of lightning, to introduce Soun to her friend Kimiko." He sighed and shook his head, a small smile curving his mouth. " It was one of the best things I ever did."                             

_Well there, can't be much competition in the good deed department, _Akane thought bitterly, but remained silent.

"Soun fell head over heels for her, and was soon back to his old self, full of vigour. Love has those sort of strange effects," his tone became reflective and he gave Akane a sidelong glance; that made her suspicious of his the meaning behind that look.

"Your mother was a very modern minded person, educated in tradition but not obsessed with it like my own paramour. She was always looking forwards to the future; and that suited Soun just fine. Your mother was also trained in the martial arts, having studied Kyudo, the way of the bow. To her, as to your father, the martial arts were a spiritual path, the combative side a ghost of the past. Your mother believed that the time of challenges and duels between martial artists was gone, and that the future place of the art was in teaching respect and humility to a new generation. Which is why when your father and I 'ended' our apprenticeship with the Master, he settle down with Kimiko to raise a family and to teach the Anything-goes school as an art form, thus the Tendo-ryu was formed. I did not have the patience for such things, I wanted to perfect and hone my fighting prowess and test it against the best, so after finally marrying Nodoka and securing the future of our clans by a betrothal oath, I set off on my own training voyage.

"It was over three years later that Soun and I were reunited. Nodoka had recently told me that she was expecting our first child, and bowled over by this announcement, I decided to seek out your father and his advice. I was not surprised to find my old friend so settled and so happy; with Nabiki a new born baby, Kasumi a toddler, a dojo full of students and the respect of the town, Soun had done very well for himself.

"Despite his happiness, Soun's skills had grown stagnant. He had long ago defeated those who would question his right to teach and had formed a modified syllabus of the Anything-goes style, which was aimed at fitness and self-defence. He had turned the drilling of techniques into an exercise of focus and strength. Sparring was regulated by rules adopted from kick-boxing and full contact karate. The kata were meditation instead of manuals of deadly techniques. I did not question his methods, it was his dojo, but when I did once ask him about it all he did was chuckle 'That's the way of things now Saotome,' he said."

Genma swallowed and then shook his head slowly, his eyes downcast as he stared at the floor mats. "He missed his potential, such a waste. And when Kimiko died…"he left the statement unfinished, hanging in the air.

"You sound like you're sad for him?" Akane said softly, unused to sorrow from the man only fake, panda tears,

"Perhaps," he said quietly. His eyes were hidden behind the glare from the now risen sun, meagre light filling the sky beneath a veil of grey clouds. She saw his lips moved barely as he mumbled something beneath his breath. Akane strained to hear it.

"Perhaps I'm sad for myself."

Suddenly he lunged forwards, leaning close to her with his hand pressed against the floor and his eyes drilling into hers from mere inches away. Akane recoiled at his abrupt motion, one arm rising in a defensive gesture as she arched back away from his cold stare. 

"But you're different Akane," he said softly.

"I am?" she spluttered weakly.

Genma nodded and moved back, sliding back into his stiff seated position. 

"You have the spark that your father never did. I can feel it."

"I do?"

"Yes that is why smash bricks instead of easing your stress through the kata as your father taught you. Why you charged into the horde of perverted boys at your school gates instead of letting them come to you and defending, or just reporting them.

"You have a fire inside you that makes you want to lash out at things, to show yourself you are better than them." He grimaced as he sat back on his haunches. "At present that fire is wild and untamed, wasted." 

Akane opened her mouth but Genma raised a hand, which seemed to steal he protest before she could word it. Biting her lip she waited for him to continue.

"Practising the martial arts is like the forging of a fine sword. First good, hard metal is needed. Your father had that, but he did not have the fire needed for the forging. You possess that fire, but the flames must be focussed and controlled to form the blade. And then the skills must be honed and sharpened, a process that will last your entire life, during each battle, after each…."

"Enough with the metaphor Uncle Saotome, you're not sounding any wiser." Akane broke in, tired of his drawn out rant.

Genma's lips tightened to a frown, but his cheeks did redden slightly and his eyes focussed upon his fingers at the picked at an imaginary thread in his gi.

" What you're saying is that you want to make me a better martial artist."

The large man snorted. "Not just better, girl, one of the best. Remember the battle suit that showed your true potential, your power. I can bring that out. Bring it under your control, not that of magic. With your fire and my excellent and flawless tutelage, you could become a warrior with a reputation to shake all of Japan. You would be better than Kodachi, better than the Amazon…better than…"

"Better than Ranma?" Akane burst in. She did not know where that had come from; the words had just ripped themselves from her chest. She could feel her heart pound as she waited for his response, balling her hands into her gi to stop them shaking. Her mouth had gone dry. _What's wrong with me? _she asked herself. Confusion began to cloud her brain, yet she her body was still tensed in readiness for his answer.    

 A wide grin almost split Genma's face in two. "That depends on you," he said with a shrug. "Are you willing to give your heart and body? Everything you have? To treat me as your sensei? To do what I ask no matter how hard or what sacrifices you make?"

Akane's own pulse seemed to beat in her skull like a drum. She knew what Genma was like, the cat-fist, the fiancés and the thefts. Could she trust herself to his training? Would it change her? He offered the respect she knew she craved, a chance to stand up out of Ranma's shadow and be counted as a warrior in her own right. A chance to be the hero and no longer the damsel in distress. However the price would be high, maybe too high.

The image of her and Ranma side-by-side flashed in her mind, fighting together, each watching the other's back; the dangers they faced binding them together. 

_To fight along side Ranma, as his equal. Is that what I want?_

Then came the memory of kneeling upon Ranma's beaten form posing victoriously in her battle-suit, having mopped the floor with her previously untouchable fiancé. This time it would be her, not the suits knowledge using her body. Her own talent harnessed through her own efforts, would defeat him.

_To be better than Ranma, is that what I want?_

 Whatever her heart desires, it had cast the dice and the path was chosen. Her life changed as the lines of destiny morphed to form her fate.

"When do we start, Sensei?" she asked, chest swelling.

Genma smirked. "We already have, girl. We already have."

An ocean of grey clouds formed a low canopy above the leafy evergreens and bare branches of the trees that grew stubbornly down the face of Mount Emei. Thick forests spread to the horizon, forming hazy shadows as they descended into the mists that swarmed around the peaks. Ancient paths wound amongst the crags and, linking the ledges with steps of smooth white stone, worn and bowed after century upon century of humble monks and holy pilgrims. 

The wooden boards of the small bridge rattled beneath Brand's heels as he strode across the small brook. Water fell along the jagged rocks in a series of minor falls, rushing and burbling as it slid down the mountain in white, foamy streams. 

The sweet scent of burning incense wafted into his nostrils, telling him that he was close. He followed the path as it followed the earth, twisting sharply around the mountainside, the rock wall seeming to slide away as he advanced.

Across the blanket of fog stood a stone ledge, appearing to float in the mist like a spire of dark rock. Shrouded behind a curtain of fog and the leaves of mighty evergreens that jutted from the mountains the platform seemed magical, as if formed from the solidifying haze as it grew and expanded from the air. The sun was weak in the sky, yet the light still seemed to glimmer gently across the tiles of the small shrine standing upon the ledge. Carved and gilded pillars held the curved roof aloft above an ornate wooden altar; paper charms and bright petals arranged on the many levels amongst the fragrant sticks of burning incense. Above the altar loomed an idol carved in the image of a man with a painted face like a thunderhead and a broad, forked beard. Brand could just make out the twisted scowl of the scarlet lips, and glowering eyes of polished jade.

His hand lashed out like a blur, snatching the golden leaf from flight -a last remnant of the recent fall, lashed at his face by a wild gust of wind that had risen abruptly from the once still air. His fingers tightened, capturing the leaf in a tight fist as his lips twitched in a momentary frown. That had been no natural wind. With a sigh he opened his hand and let a small stream of black dust trail from his fingertips on another sudden breeze. 

He brushed away the remaining ash against the long tail of his red coat, careful not to mar any of the intricate embroidery of gilded thread that was woven in exquisite patterns across the garment. The working of gold thorns wound over his sleeves and shoulders, the scene culminating in the vivid portrait of a swooping hawk with wings of silver fire and eyes of scarlet flame.

The wind whipped into another frenzy, the squall tossing his hair into disarray. With a grimace he raked a hand through the dark, red curls sweeping them into a rough order as he glowered across at the ledge at what he knew to be the source of the angry blasts of air.

The girl danced in wide circles upon the eight wooden posts that formed a large ring under the lightning gaze of the furious idol. A tail of long blonde hair trailed behind her, swinging and thrashing with her movements as she stepped from pole to pole effortlessly. Her eyes stared keenly a head as she moved with fluid grace, seeming to glide flawlessly. Her hands were in constant motion, open palms swaying and shifting before striking out at the centre of her circle. Always at the centre. The circle was her world and her life, and the centre its heart, its core, where all the energy of the universe was gathered, and could be seized.

Walking to the edge of the mountain, he gazed downwards along its steep banks. In the mist the forests and rivers below were blurry, like scenes in a watercolour painting. He squatted onto his haunches, plucking idly at a tenacious tuft of grass that grew doggedly at a crack it the rocks. 

Blasting against the mountainside with his leg, he heaved himself into the air. For the beating of a heart he was souring through the hazy sky, the air rushing with his pulse in his ears. Then he came roughly upon firm earth once again, dropping into a crouch and absorbing the sudden force of his landing. 

He could feel the satisfied smirk crawl onto his lips as he stood, hands brushing imaginary dust and smoothing non-existent wrinkles from his clothes.

"You do know there is a bridge?" a voice asked dryly.

Brand turned to the blonde girl who had ceased in her frantic, spiral waltz and now stood frowning with arms folded beneath hers breasts. Her stance was arrow straight, heels together and maintaining perfect posture while balanced effortlessly upon the narrow cap of one of the poles. Despite the odd scenario she managed to present a prime picture of female disapproval.

He shrugged, "It's good exercise."

Willow snorted.

"Everything should be taken as training, dear little sister." He smiled as the title made her grimace. "Every opportunity to improve should be taken and not just the times when you are feeling grumpy." He gestured at the ring of wooden posts.

"What makes you think I'm grumpy?" she sneered.

"The mini-typhoon that appeared out of thin and formerly quiet air," he answered with a quirk of his eyebrow.

"Don't exaggerate. That was nothing like a typhoon."

Brand cocked his head to one side as he glanced at her with a raised eyebrow. "There should have been no wind at all. You should have more control than that."

Willow frowned at him. "You can hardly lecture _anyone_ on a lack of control Brand." She lifted an admonishing finger skyward, "People in glass houses shouldn't play with fire." 

Brand's lips twisted into a harsh scowl at the comment. He had walked into that one.

"We are not talking about me, Willow, "he huffed.

"That tapestry you torched _was _very valuable. Priceless you might say. A gift from the Emperor, in days the mountain would strain to recall." Her smirk was venomous.

His jaw tightened. "You're never going to let that one go, are you?" he said through gritted teeth. "No matter how much time passes?"

"There has been much more than one incident, dear brother." She replied in a voice full of sickly saccharine. "That was just the first to cross my mind." She placed her index finger to her chin in an exaggerated gesture of contemplation. "There was also the time when you shattered Blitz's favourite mirror after he split coffee on your shirt. And the…"

"I did not come here to talk about me," he interjected with a roar.

Her smile vanished. "That's the point Brand. You were so busy offering hypocritical crap, you haven't told me what you have come for."

       His mouth worked, ready to yell back a reply, but with clenched fists and deep breaths he brought himself under control. There were more important matters.

            "Cloud wants to talk to you. He feels that yesterdays incident should be discussed in greater detail."

            Willow's eyes narrowed. With a muted growl she spun on her heel, stomping towards the misty silhouette of a bridge enshrouded by fog. Frowning Brand followed her.

            "Acting a little melodramatic aren't we?" he called after her.

            He received no verbal reply yet he saw her muscles tense slightly, as she continued to stride away with her back to him. Sighing he increased his pace so that he could fall in beside her as she reached the bridge. She glared at him from the corner of her eyes as he came up beside her, but said nothing. Her heels thundered upon the rickety wooden planks with each step, making the slender path sway precariously on its worn, wooden suspension. 

              "You never used to take losing so badly," he muttered.

            He caught the incoming back fist at the wrist without breaking his stride. Raising an eyebrow he glanced sidelong at his assailant, who glared daggers at back at him. He released her arm and she resumed stalking away.

            "You just don't understand Brand." 

            Brand stared after her, watching her tail of golden hair sway between her shoulder blades as she marched. After a moment he followed after her with brows lowered, lengthening his strides to fall in beside her.

            "Does this have something to do with that _boy_?" he felt his lips twist on the last word.

            Willow frowned. "You mean Ryoga?"

            "I don't care about his name," Brand snapped.

            "Well, I do."

            "That's what I'm afraid of." He grumbled. 

            Brand continued walking for another three paces before he realised that the girl had stopped. Turning around he saw his sister glowering, her arms folded and foot tapping with rapid percussion.

            "Please tell me we're not going to do the over-protective brother act?" she said dryly.

            "You know what these foreigners are like, especially the men." He griped. "They have no values, especially when here. They just want to get lucky with some naïve girl and brag about it to their friends over beer and burgers." 

            "That's a rather paranoid view, besides Ryoga's not like that. He's too shy. He looked about to have an embolism when I said he had nice muscles," Her lips twitched as she clearly fought a reminiscent grin.

            Brand could hear his teeth grinding upon each other. _And just how did she get to see his MUSCLES! _he mentally screamed. _That guy's dead, _he swore, balling his hands into fist.

            "I can take care of myself Brand," she said as she resumed her angry pace along the worn stone paths. "And I am not a _naïve girl_," she added venomously.

            "You forget yourself, Willow," he called after her, "and your duty!"  

            The girl whirled to face him in a flurry of back silk and golden tresses. Her face was red and her eyes emerald eyes flared beneath her bangs, her lips warped as she snarled,

             "My duty has _nothing _to do with whom I choose as friends, _Lord_ Brand," she spat. Spinning on her heel she stalked around a bend in the mountain and took the ancient stairs two at a time. The canopy of elm branches that hung overhead shook and waved in sudden sharp gusts.

            Grimacing Brand followed, choosing to remain two paces behind his sister, watching her fume from a safe distance.  

             As he climbed the age-smoothed steps his home became slowly revealed at the crest of the widening stairway. The temple clung to face of the mountain, the furthest buildings vanishing into the thickening mist. The wild trees that ascended with him stopped; as platform gardens rose in layers alongside the steps, nature became tamed into small tress and shrubs that grew amidst white rocks in a tranquil miniature forest. 

            The green tiles of the great halls many curved roofs, moistened by the recent rains to the colour of dew-laden grass, rose before him. The gilded carvings along the arching spires protruding from the roofs and the mighty pillars were just visible.

            Brand crested the stairs and passed beneath the gateway, the scarlet doors swung wide in welcome. He followed Willow across the bridge of milky stone that spanned a wide moat of silent, still water; it's surface perfectly tranquil with the faintest layers of winters frost. The bridge's rails were held up by a legion of stone fists punching from the stone path, and stretched between posts of flickering lanterns.

            A young student, a plump boy with thinning hair and cold reddened cheeks swept at the polished tiles before the central shrine, back hunching from the cold as he laboured beneath a wooden arch supported by red pillars traced with running spirals. On their approach he immediately his broom halted, and he bowed low towards them.   Willow stormed past as if he were made of air. With a splutter he glanced towards Brand who inclined his head slowly, with a muffled squeak the boy returned the bow from the waist. 

            His sister took the path that cornered around the shrine, passing beneath its bowed roof, her heels clicking upon the red tiles. Brand followed, now hearing the rush of the mountain falls, where frothy white water streamed from and down the harsh rock face to join the harmonious moat, with only the barest of ripples sliding along the calm surface.

            Behind the shrine the paths diverged leading to more winding stairways, more ornate buildings or through more gardens and bridges across gentle green waters as they climbed higher up Mount Emei, becoming ever more shrouded in veils of grey mist and white clouds. 

            Straight ahead was a flat courtyard of many stones, the irregular shapes and varied of colours pounded in to a smooth floor of blurry, golden yellow. In the centre a small group of people, young and old, moved slowly across the dusty stone, small clouds of worn rock kicked up by their swinging, sliding steps. They only wore thin vests and pants with feet bare. Their hands moved gently through the form, copying the young adept as he demonstrated before the steps of the Grand Chamber. His flowing movement were ruined by a jarring start, his head flashed around to fix upon Willow's incoming form.

            "Halt," he yelled.

            The students in the courtyard froze, their movements ceasing in an instant as if time had suddenly stopped. Each student hung poised and motionless in the same one legged crane stance they had slid into at the moment of their instructor's barked order.

            "Hail Lord Brand and Lady Willow," he called bowing towards the named two as they moved towards him.

            The stamping of lowered feet echoed in the mountain like a thunderclap, the students dropping from their stances with military precision. Feet together and with iron stiff postures the assembled trainees brought their hands over their heart, the knuckles of the right fist pressed into the left palm and bowed, the lowering of heads passing like waves on the sea.

            With a start and what seemed to be a barely suppressed humph his sister raised her own hands to return the salutation, barely forming the gesture before continuing her speedy path towards the Grand Hall.

            Brand watched her behaviour with a tight-lipped frown, before acknowledging the students salute with his own, perhaps a little more ostentatiously than usual. He nodded towards the instructor, and the lesson immediately resumed, the young man leading his charges through the first movements of the form.  

            He weaved in between the people and across the courtyard, the students almost leaping from his path, making the effort to avoid them minimal. 

The young instructor halted in his lesson to allow his sister's passage as she alighted the three stone steps before the Hall, stepping to the side before turning to seize of hold of the large bars that were fixed across the mighty steel doors. 

At twice his height they towered above Brand, the red panels of the doors embossed with magnificent animal motifs, formed from precious metals and gems, the yellow light from the hanging lanterns glimmering across the dragon's jade scales and sparkled upon the lion's red-gold mane. The flickering shadows made the creatures seem to move with the life implied by their exquisite carving. 

With a great metallic rasp the doors swung open, the instructor's muscles bunching beneath his thin vest as he heaved the upon the metal bars and pried open the Grand Hall. Brand sped up to follow Willow into the tower, once inside he gestured to the youth with a wave of his hand and the doors were pushed shut behind him. 

A giant before plain, wooden panels of the next doorway, the lantern light reduced to nothing by his imposing shadow. Brand was considered a tall man both from his fellow Chinese and visiting foreigners but Cragg loomed half again as tall, his head and shoulders rising clear above Brand's waves of red hair. A black cape barely spanned his massive shoulders, hanging open and without a ripple as the material stretched over his huge frame to halt at the folds of his leather boots. Upon the breast a Bear paced on its four paws, depicted in glittering thread. Beneath the cloak, wooden pegs strained to hold closed the vest of bronze silk that threatened to burst over his barrel chest and the iron hard muscles that bulged at his abdomen. 

"You're here," he said in his deep, cavernous voice, lifting a huge hand to rub at the dark bristles on his chin. 

"Full marks for observation," Willow grunted.

"We can begin," the giant rumbled. "The others are waiting."

Cragg turned and pushed open the doors behind him, holding them open long enough for Willow to put hand against it and take its weight, before passing through into the next room, ducking his head so that he could pass beneath the frame.

The hall was a vast oval, the ceiling spanned by scarlet rafters decorated with paper charms and from which lamps hung bathing the walls in yellow light despite the grey sky visible through the thin windows. Pillars of marbled stone, wound with spiralling leaves of polished, green clay stood in splendour along the hall's circumference. The pale stone of the walls were covered with colourful paintings that reached from the cracked tiles of the floor to the rafters. Some were faded into obscurity while others were still beautiful in their vivid clarity. History, myth and fable depicted in pictures. Remnants from the past rendered in colour liquids stained the walls and thus eternity.

From the centre of the hall, was a dais, a wide raised disc, no higher than the span of a hand. Wound around the rim like spokes on a wheel were inscribed the eight trigrams, stark black upon the white stone. Upon the disc's hub sat stunted round table, the black lacquer catching the light from above on its shining surface marked with a symbol that depicted two fish, one black and one white unified in the perfect circle of the grand ultimate, the yin and the yang.

Four men awaited them; seated upon silk cushions around the table they gave Brand and Cragg a cursory glance and nod of acknowledgement before focussing their attentions on Willow approach who scowled darkly.

"Let's get this over with," she grumbled, stepping on to the dais and dropping her self gracelessly onto an unoccupied cushion.

Brand and Cragg joined them, the blue silk of a cushion disappearing beneath the giants hunched form. Brand crossed his legs and folded them beneath him rocking slightly from side to side in order to find some semblance of comfort.

"Once again I have to ask," Blitz began toying with the sharp bang that hung across his face, protruding from his unruly crest of yellow hair. "What the hell are we here for?" Releasing the blade-like lock, he added. "Some of us have more important things to attend to."

Brand seriously doubted that. _Unless those things are breasts, _he conceded bitterly.

"Trust me, we all have places we would rather be," Cloud said grimly, glancing wistfully at the cushion lying vacant across from Brand. The silk surface of his indigo tunic shimmered as he scrubbed a large hand over his face and through his thick black hair before folding his arms. "We are here, Blitz, because we need to clarify certain details about Willow's fight yesterday," he said after a moment.

"What's to clarify?" Blitz said with a shrug. "She fought and lost."

Willow glared at him but raised no protest.

"That in itself raises a few questions," Cloud replied, arching his brow. "The biggest of them being 'Why?'" he swivelled his head to lock gazes with the blonde girl who glowered in return.

"As a Master of Emei Baqua zhang, I have the right to challenge whomever I choose, for my own reasons." The fire in her narrowed eyes was a barrier to Cloud's line of inquiry, striking down any further question to her motives.

"That is true, but has always been a rare thing for any of our order to exercise such a right," Stone remarked. The resemblance between him and Cloud was apparent to all who saw. The same imposingly handsome face, with its square jaw and blue eyes that flashed beneath dark brows, that seems furrowed in a permanent frown. However Stone's shoulders were broader, with large slabs of muscle that contrasted against the sleeker build of his twin brother. His clothes too bore no likeness to Clouds' finery, garbed in a simple habit of dark grey; the sleeves torn at his shoulders, the pants tied roughly on his calves and the sash around his waist worn and frayed. His feet were bare and covered with dust and dirt, staining the silk cushion on which knelt, and that he cared little for. His head and chin were clean-shaven in the style of their Buddhist neighbours, and where his sibling glared at everything with a scowl as dark as a storm, Stone looked on expressionless as a cliff face.

"Rare until recently that is," he continued, his eyes passing carefully over both Brand and Blitz. 

The spiky-haired blonde smiled wryly and shrugged, but Brand felt his jaw tighten, his eyes smouldered at Stone but he found himself unable to hold that emotionless gaze and turned his glare to the table.

"Even more rare, is for a master of our order to lose such a duel." Stone stated flatly, his eyes moving towards Willow.

The girl's head shot up, eyes flashing. The fury dissolved swiftly as she watched Stone's granite-like face, her shoulders slumped as she sagged defeated on to her forearms. Brand's teeth ground against each other as his sister sighed, and he glared daggers at the other man, but that flat stare never left Willow, his eyes neither disapproving nor angry; just looking.

 "Calm down, no one is blaming you, child." Locke said, his already gnarled face was creased further as he smiled warmly at the young woman, thin almost skeletal fingers stroking his wiry white beard. "It is clear that the person you fought possesses tremendous skill, and there is no shame in defeat by such a person." He paused to pick at some miniscule speck on his voluminous silk robe, which seemed to swallow his small and withered frame. When he looked up again it was with a frown that furrowed his thin and very long brows, making the thin white hairs dip to his cheeks. 

"However, someone with the skills to defeat one of us is someone who should be kept an eye on. Especially so, given the suspicious circumstances of your loss."

"What do you mean suspicious?" Willow snapped. All eyes were on Locke, Cloud's and Stone's gaze intense through narrowed eyes.

Locke pulled a long wooden pipe from the folds of his robes, slowly thumbing it full of sweet herbs as he spoke. "I saw a tornado yesterday while making some fresh tea, several of us must have."

 Brand nodded in agreement as he and Blitz has seen the cyclone as well as they ran towards the town, he saw Cloud and Cragg make the same gesture also.    

"Since the weather had been calm all day, and as hurricanes are rare in China, it is clear that Willow used the Phoenix Wing Gale. We all know the power of that technique, but it is she whom young Brand found bruised and unconscious." The old man shrugged as he lit his pipe. "It just seems a little odd."

Cloud leant forwards, propping his elbow against the varnished table and peering across at the young girl over laced fingers. "What happened, Willow?" he asked gruffly.  

Brand could not see his sister's face, her head was bowed and her shoulder's slumped, her bangs fell like a golden veil and obscured her face. Her hands lay limp the well of her lap, the only sign of life the movement of her right index fingers as it ran to and fro over the embroidery on her right sleeve.

"She went easy on me." She said softly, a whisper that she wanted others to hear but not herself. "The bitch was pulling her punches," this time her voice was hard and bitter. "Hell, she didn't throw any "punches", all were defensive strikes, to my arms or legs to parry or gain distance. She was holding back, trying not to hurt me, and yet it was all I could do to keep up with her."

Locke gasped around his pipe, Blitz's jaw dropped and for a moment Brand thought he saw Stone's eyes widen, by a fraction, but the gesture was gone in an instant. He felt himself lean forwards eyes and ears intent upon his sister's words, butterflies flogging at his stomach. Hot butterflies as he felt an almost burning rush in his veins. His knuckles turned white on his fists as he fought to suppress the movement of his lips. Whether he was battling against a growl or a smile he could not tell.

"I knew I could not match her skills in hand to hand combat, and she had already avoided my Wind Palm technique, yet I had managed to strike a nerve point, which tipped the balance in my favour enough to make her frustrated. When her aura began to heat up, I walked the circle, drawing in the winds of rage."

Willow's blue eyes fixed onto Locke's through her blonde tresses. "She performed the final step, barely the beating of a heart after I had struck. The wave of ice she released drew me into the vortex," she paused, licking at her lips and swallowing, "it shot me into the air and then it all went black."

Brand though he saw his sister's shoulders tremble, he did not blame her. Once during training she had caught him with the Phoenix Gale, having just learned its secrets she surprised him with it, sucking him into the air. The summoned winds blasted his face, stinging his eyes and stealing his breath, while furious gust battered him from all sides, hard enough to leave bruises. Then the tornado spat him out forcefully, shooting him like a bullet to crash through the branches and trunks of trees. It was an experience he never wished to repeat, and he knew it must have been much harder on her, as it was her own technique that had betrayed her.

"Willow?" Locke's ancient voice quavered slightly, and Brand saw him share a glance with Cloud from the wrinkled corners of his eyes. "This girl, with whom you fought. Are you sure she was Japanese?"

The girl nodded. "Yes, she wore Chinese clothes but she was a Jap?"

Locke frowned, "Are you certain? What did she look like?"

"Did she have a nice rack?" Blitz piped in with a leer, earning glares from the other men gathered around the table.

Willow sighed loudly and rolled her eyes. "To answer both of your questions, yes. She was a big-titted Japanese bitch."

" Damn it, Willow!" Cloud roared. "This is not a joke." He leaned forwards from his cushion, supporting himself with hands flat on the table as he peered at Willow beneath his lowered brows. "Was there nothing unusual about this girl?"

Willow gawped at him, her eyes wide and jaw hanging open as she shook her head.

"Think carefully," he said in frosted, soft voice. "Anything at all? Her hair? Her height? Her eyes?"

"Red hair," she muttered. "She had red hair."

Cloud's expression became darker as he slowly settled back onto his cushion, as if a shadow had passed across his face from an unseen source. The blue in his eyes flashed like streaks of pale lightning.

"Nichieju," he pronounced grimly

"The Amazons?" Brand asked with a start. "What have they got to do with this?"  

"The Amazon's are fierce warriors, who train for combat everyday of their existence. It is not unthinkable that one of their number, could become strong enough to defeat a Baqua master." Stone mused.

"Also, they are known to have diverse hair and eye colourings, purples, reds, blues and others," Locke added. 

"You think she was an Amazon?" Willow said incredulously. "That's absurd, she was Japanese."

"Perhaps she has Amazon blood. The Nichieju marry any man they deem to be strong to strengthen the tribe, perhaps her father was deemed as such." Locke rubbed at his beard and frowned. "She has definitely received Amazon training, it is the only way for her to know the secret of the Phoenix Wing Gale. The technique was one of The Gifts."

Silence fell over the seven like a tense, clinging shroud as each processed this new information. Willow glared at the tabletop her gaze burning a hole on the polished black surface. Blitz's gazed at the ceiling, his fingers toying and spinning the end of the blade-like bang hanging over his brow. Cragg was motionless, towering above the others with his arms folded across his huge chest, seemingly oblivious to everything. Stone passed his cold gaze over all of them as he sat there, hands resting in his palm and his face bleak and emotionless like a marble statue. Locke peered at the other with a raised brow, glancing at each of them with squinted eyes as he puffed at his pipe. Brand felt himself seething, a starved flame ready to burst but kept small boiling his blood, his hands worked at each other in a frenzy systematically cracking every knuckle in his hand, each sinuous pop a melody to his internal fire.

"You see our problem," Cloud muttered, his eyes like blue ice. "The laws of our Order have been violated."

Locke sighed and shook his head, smoke billowing in a fine stream as he exhaled, swirling around him in sweet scented haze. "The Accords were written over three thousand years ago, it is possible the Amazon's have forgotten the terms of the agreement."

"Ignorance is no excuse," Stone stated plainly.

"Then they must be punished," Brand cried, slamming his fist on the table. "I will do it personally." He felt a grin grow on his face that he could not hide, nor tried to.

"This is not a time to satiate your pride, Brand." Willow griped.

Blitz nodded and added his own opinion. "Besides, this should be left to someone who knows how to treat a lady," a smirk crawled across his lips.

"We want her getting rid off, not knocked up." Brand shot back, _her and the bastard who tried to seduce my sister, _he silently swore.

"It's best we don't rush into things," Locke chided chewing upon the end of his pipe. 

"You have a better suggestion, Old man?" Brand asked dryly.

Locke's frowned with thought, the wrinkles of his face making his feature's seems to screw and shrivel like dried fruit. His mouth emitted a stream of wet, percussive sound as his lips puffed and smacked around his pipe stem, small bursts of smoke wafting from the pommel.

"Elder Locke?" Stone said. The old man snatched his pipe from his mouth and turned to face the bald figure, a small pout on his lips at the interruption. Stone met his eyes without expression, his face and voice hard.

"Is not one of your students Japanese?" 

Locke nodded, "Yes, a splendid young fellow. Very bright and inquisitive." He added another sharp nod.

"His personality is irrelevant," Stone grunted, "but perhaps he could speak with this girl. To determine whether she is Japanese as Willow claims, and if so from where and how has she received Amazonian training."

"Most importantly," Cloud interjected harshly. "Who taught her, we must know who has broken the Accord, and if there are others."

Locke smiled, "That is an excellent suggestion." He waved the stem of his pipe at Stone who merely arched an eyebrow. "My student came to use for help with a certain ailment, however his condition also makes it extremely hard for him to be away from his homeland. It may do him some good to speak with a countryman."

Brand snorted, "Who cares, this isn't a comfort visit. I still say that I should deal with them."

He was ignored by Cloud who kept his dark gaze upon the aged scholar. "Are you sure he can be trusted?" He asked in tones of ice. "If he sides with or help his countrymen he will share their punishment. Which will be _severe._"

"And if they have broken the laws?" Brand asked his voice dripping with acid. "Do we invite them for tea? Ask them to leave quietly?"

The temperature of the room seemed to drop and the lights dimmed as if a black haze had passed across the sun. "Then you may have your chance at them, dear Brother." Cloud pledged, a thunderstorm blazing in his eyes.

**To be continued…**

**AN- **5 months! It's been 5 months since the last chapter. I am so very sorry. I've had so many problems, including a computer bugger up that forced me to re-write this chapter from scratch. That combined with many other issues personal and professional and the writer's block from hell put of the writing of this fic. I'm also sorry that it's not up to the standard I would like, but I really feel that if I don't get it out now, I never will. I'll try not to let it happen again but I can't read the future so make no promises. Once again sorry!

Thanks to Rob for proof-reading, Larry for hosting on the Lost Library, and to Aondehafka whose frank and helpful review woke me from my slumber and helped me fight through my writer's block. I would advise anyone to get reading his fics White Rose and Nocturne. And of course thanks to you for reading and you're continued patience.

**Glossary:**

**Kai Muay: **A training camp for professional Muay Thai fighters.

**Bakumatsu: **The revolution that brought an end to the Tokugawa Shogunate (like any RK fan doesn't know that)

**Mokujin: **Wooden man (known as a Mook Yan Jong in Chinese), a martial arts training tool consisting of a dummy in a crude man shape that is struck and blocked. Most common model consists of a post with three poles jutting forward at chest height to represent arms so blocks can be practised, and a leg to train sweeps and stomping kicks.

**Kumon-ryu Kyoku-ken: **Kumon style ultimate fist, a martial arts style developed by Ryu Kumon using the strategies and principles of the Saotome-ryu Yamasen-ken.

**Naihanchi: **Standing on unstable ground (also known as Tekki or Iron horse), the first kata taught in the Anything-goes school of martial arts. Part of many Okinawan karate styles though believed to have originated in China. _Note: the opinions and analysis of this kata given by Genma is based on my own personal practise of the kata and research and how I was taught. It is not a certainity but rather a personal expression._

**Maihanchi: **Dancing on uneven ground, a variant of the Naihanchi kata created by Ranma Saotome to suit a softer and more mobile fighter with more avoidance skills and body movements in the application of techniques.

**Gojushiho: **Fifty four steps (also called Useishi), a kata found in many karate styles. Believed to have been created by the famous Karate master Sokon (Bushi) Matsumura as the apex of the karate practised in the Tode village of Okinawa.

**Buraju-Strappu: **Bra strap, an original kata of the Anything-goes style created by Grandmaster Happosai. Its name comes from the kata's techniques that emphasis supple movements, yielding absorbsion of force, and explosive release of power; like the snap of a bra strap that has been pulled then released.

   

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	3. The Masters of the Mountain

**_Honour And Pride_****__**

By Beer-Monster

Book II: The Eight Phases.

**Chapter Three: The Masters of The Mountain**__

_Science without Religion is lame,_

_Religion without Science is blind._

_                                                ~Einstein_

            The sun hung low, a golden blur shining brightly through the grey wash the clouds painted across the sky. The tall spires of Tokyo's hub stood like tiny sentinels in the distance, the sprawling metropolis spreading to the ocean, which was barely visible as an indigo band spanning beneath the dark clouds upon the horizon.

            Shampoo crouched upon the rooftop awaiting her prey. Perhaps some instinct born of Jusenkyo compelled her into the posture of a prowling cat, her back curved into a feline arch as she squatted on her haunches, the balls of her feet and the tips of her fingers poised upon the tiles like a runner at the blocks. She peered carefully over the edge of the roof, eyes scanning the streets and the skyline for any sign of her quarry. Raising one hand she tucked a stray lock of lavender hair behind ear, listening to the sound of the city. 

            _Curse these Japanese for being so noisy, _she griped silently. She had once been proud of her tracking skills, one of the best in her village she had honed her senses to human limits and beyond, hunting wild game for her people in the valleys of her home in Quing Hai. The thrill of pursuit was almost as sweet as the rush of combat and far better for the soul. Harrying deer through the woods, trapping wild boars, her sisters at her side and sharing the glory. No longer the young champion, but one of a whole, the pack.  Dispatching their target swiftly and painlessly with a single arrow, a hurled javelin and occasionally her bare hands, the perfect test of the weapons she had honed her body into.

            There was no pleasure to be had in the hunt while in Japan, the dense smog choking her lungs, the acrid scent of factories and people clawing at her senses. The sounds were deafening, the honking of cars, the revving of buses, the shuttling chant of the trains, and the voices of thousands of thousands of people. Her senses were overloaded, her quarry flitting unseen beneath the noise.

            A scream pierced through the urban din. Shampoo tensed and lowered her crouch, her body coiled, ready to strike. From the corner of her eyes she saw a blur bounce across her periphery. She pounced, her body unfurling and snapping straight, launching upwards like a human arrow, her foot streaking at her target. 

            She hit nothing but air. 

            She recovered quickly from her failed kick, whirling around with a snarl, arms immediately crossed defensively across her chest.

            "Morning Shampoo dear," came a thin voice from behind her. "Starting early today aren't you?"

            Shampoo turned quickly to face the Anything-goes master, her arms still shielding her expansive bosom. Her grimace grew deeper as her eyes came upon the bulging sack upon which the diminutive old man was sitting, the strap and a single cup of a bright white bra protruding from under the crudely tied knot. His eyes were sunken and squinted amidst wrinkled, sagging skin, yet they still twinkled as they ran over her leanly curved form. Shampoo growled and lunged forwards twisting into a low roundhouse that cut the air like an iron flail. 

                Happosai dived to the side, leaping up and somersaulting over the Amazon's vicious attack, carrying the black sack that dwarfed him in size through the air like it weighed nothing. 

            Missing its target, the momentum of Shampoo's kick spun her like a top. She pulled her leg back in, cocking her heel beneath her and bringing herself into a controlled pirouette. Ending her spin, she kept her leg raised as she faced the withered figure in the proud crane stance, one arm outstretched and the other across her stomach, both hands formed blades levelled at her enemy.

            "Please be more careful Shampoo," Happosai chided softly. "That kick almost took away my silky darlings."

            "They not yours, pervert man," she spat. "You give back to people you steal from." 

            "I can't do that," he whined. "Those girls, cute though they be, could never appreciate these lovelies like they deserve." His gnarled face twisted in what she assumed was an attempt to look cute. 

            "You give Shampoo panties now."

            "Oh you want them, Shampoo?" A wide suddenly split his shrivelled face from ear to ear. "Of course, anything for you dear. I had worried about a sexy young thing like you having no panties of your own. Yet now you wish to model lingerie for me." He wiped a crocodile tear from his eye. "You make this poor, old man so happy."

            "Happi keep dreaming," she roared as she leapt into the air, arching her leg vertically into the air and bringing it down into violent arc as she descended. The old man became a small black blur as her heel slammed into the space he had just vacated, broken tiles erupting from the impact. 

            Her vision went white, and then black as something fell over her face. Staggering with surprise she fumbled to the side, hands clawing at the fabric stretched over her eyes. With a growl she ripped the material away, finding herself holding a pair of torn white panties. Roaring loudly she shredded the garment with her nails, and flung away its remains, her balance wavering at her toes encountered the roof's edge.

            "Aw…that was a nice pair," the withered master's voice whined from behind her, "but I'll forgive you"  

            Shampoo felt a pair of tiny hands press against her behind, stubbly little fingers pinching and rubbing at the firm flesh. With a muffled squawk she hopped forwards, jerking her hips forwards and pulling her bottom out of the ancient pervert's reach, clasping her hands protectively over her buttocks.

            Her feet did not touch down on the tiles; her indignant jump had vaulted her over the edge of the roof. She dropped like a dead weight into the alley between the houses, plummeting with her hands grasping at her ass, into the dumpster below. Half buried beneath bulging plastic bags of trash, she screamed, reducing a soda-can to aluminium foil in her fist as she watched Happosai leap across the alley, hefting his sack of ill-gotten gains.   

            "See you around Shampoo my dear," he called as he bounced away. "Say hello to your Granny for me."

            Still snarling low in her throat she wrestled her arms free of the heaving garbage and pulled herself upright. She tossed aside the twisted remains of the can with as much force as she could summon from her position, a small spike of satisfaction peaking as it pierced a brick wall like an artillery shell. The moment soon passed, and she sighed heavily as she gripped the lip of the dumpster and hauled herself out. 

            Her lips twisted as she furiously tried to brush the dirt and stains from her silk blouse and pants grimacing, as the result of her action was only to smear ketchup stains further into the fabric. Suppressing the urge to slam her fists through the nearby walls, she stomped out of the alley.  The few observer who had seen the fight or where curious as to the noise scattered once her expression came out of the alley's shadow. Shampoo pushed as much anger into her reddish irises as she could, as if her gaze could reduce into ash, those who had seen her shameful loss.

            Shampoo stalked along the streets in the direction of the Nekohanten, the current people before her parting like the sea around the prow of a boat, some weaving carefully to avoid her while others seeing the fury on her face simple leapt out of her path. 

            _At least I have not become so weak that I cannot scare a few outsiders, _she thought bitterly, and on the heels that realisation came an even darker one. _Or perhaps I have become so weak that I've been reduced to scaring weaklings, like some sort of bully._

A sweet scent wafted into her nostrils, the smell of freshly baked pastries and other warm treats diffused in the air from the open door of the local bakery. Shampoo's stomach twitched and emitted a burbling growl. Her eyes were drawn to the shop's window, her eyes feasting upon the array of sweet delicacies, from red bean wraps to western fondants. She could feel her mouth fill with saliva as her nose and eyes devoured the displayed cakes. 

            Balling her fist, she jerked her head aside forcing her gaze away from the bakery and back to the street before her. She quickened her pace, marching ahead and turning the corner swiftly moving towards the restaurant she still refused to acknowledge as home.

            The restaurant was dim; the sun having hidden behind the clouds now provided only meagre light reducing the usually bright scarlet furnishings to a dull burgundy, and the white walls to a pale grey. Like every morning the room was empty but for the young man who leant over the tables, running a damp cloth over the lacquered tabletops. The only sound was soft squeak of his scrubbing and the occasionally spurt of his cleaning spray that filled the air with a bitter, citrus tang. 

            Mousse paused in his work, his eyebrows drawing together as he wrinkled his nose. Shampoo scowled.

            "Shampoo?" The male Amazon inquired, lifting his head and blue eyes scanning vaguely around the restaurant.

            "What Mousse want?" she spat.

            He locked on to the sound of her voice, and squinted in her direction. After a moment he started, head flinching and eyes opening wide, his nose crinkled as he sniffed at the air once again.

            "Why duck boy keep sniffling?" she asked through grit teeth.

            "Um….well….ah…." he absently scratched at his temple with one finger and then at his nose, his gaze cast downwards towards his shifting feet. "Well it's just that you smell so lovely Shampoo, as always." His face was coloured by a flush that spread over his cheeks. "I always like the way you smell, my love."

            Shampoo snorted. _What a sycophant_, she thought, lips twisting with disgust. She knew full well how she currently smelt, the scent of the dumpster clinging to her clothes and her hair. Did the fool think she would respect him if he did not even have the guts to tell her she stunk? She wondered if their time in Japan had affected his Amazonian heart as well, or if he genuinely had no idea who she was.

            _Do **you** know who you are? _a small voice in her mind asked in reply to her thoughts.

            She shook her head to banish the voice and carried on through the restaurant, walking around two tables to avoid crossing path's with Mousse. He had hardly latched on to her since Ranma's departure, something she suspected her beloved had something to do with, yet she did not want to tempt her bad luck, not even reeking of garbage as was.

            "Table four short of chopsticks, duck boy," she grunted over her shoulder.

            "Got it," he replied, reaching into his sleeves he withdrew a neat bundle of chopsticks and idly tossed them over his shoulder without turning around. The wooden utensils remained in their stack as if joined together, travelling through the air in a graceful arc. Their trajectory landed them neatly in a tall metal tin upon the desired table with barely a rattle, coming to rest amongst point down and in perfect order with the other sticks in the tin.

            Shampoo blinked and her lips compressed to a fine line to prevent a gasp or any other sound from escaping. _That was good, _she thought yet continued to scowl at the young man as he continued wiping down the tables, unwilling to allow her impression show. The throw had been perfect, effortless; yet he had not turned to face his target and was not wearing his glasses. He had made the shot based on his memory of the Nekohanten's layout and instinct.

            Despite her own skill at using forks as projectile weapons, she knew she could not have performed a feat even whilst aiming at the table. Watching almost blind martial artist do it without thought forced her to acknowledge how far his talents had progressed.

            Her hand had balled itself into a fist, and was now clenched to hard that the knuckles had whitened as her hands trembled by her sides. Feeling the room start to shrink she slapped at the door of the kitchen, making the panel swing viciously upon its hinges and slam into the wall besides. She stalked into the kitchen as the door slowly swung back, vibrating rapidly with a low hum.

            "Greeting Great-granddaughter," Cologne said looking up from a pan of boiling soup broth. She ran her gaze over Shampoo's bedraggled form as twitched her nose as she slid her right eyebrow slid up to the band of red leather that held back her cascade of ghostly hair, making dark folds appear in her tanned, leathery face. "I see you've been chasing after Happi again," she sighed.

            "Old pervert say hi to great-grandmother," Shampoo muttered.

            "How nice of him," the Amazon matriarch said in an absent tone as she returned to her cooking, reaching into the pot and stirring the broth with a long wooden spoon.

            "I go take shower before customers arrive."

            Colognes nose crinkled again, "Yes I think that would be a good idea." Her eyes rose to lock onto Shampoo's firmly, creases comings at the corners of her eyelids as they narrowed. "Be quick though, Shampoo. I must talk to you."

            Shampoo repressed the urge to sigh, and nodded. "Yes, Great-grandmother," she said in a polite voice and headed up the stairs to the bathrooms, shedding her foul-smelling shirt on the way.

            She gasped as the warm spray hit her. Holding the hose over her head as she knelt in the tub and arched her back, a small groan forming low in her throat as the hot waters washed over her body. Grabbing a nearby loofa began rubbing the soap in to her skin, making small circles firm muscles jarred and aching from her encounter with Happosai. Suds slid across her smooth skins as she worked the soap in to her joints, massaging deeply as the heat from the shower penetrated to her pores. Her eyes fluttered closed and she groaned again.

            When the sound of her own voice reached her ears, her eyelids snapped open. _Yet another weakness,_ the inner voice taunted her. Once she had been blissful and content bathing in the icy streams beside her home, her curse had taken that from her, and now she had been bewitched by heated water and scented, herbal soaps. Her fist rose and smacked down onto the rim of the bath stall, the blow obliterating the tiled enamel. Looking at the results of her rage she sighed, her body deflating as she slumped down onto her bottom. Mechanically she resumed washing, roughly scrubbing her self piece-by-piece, then towelling dry and dressing with systematic efficiency.

            Dressing in a blouse of pale blue silk with scarlet rim, and matching pants that ended with curves at her calves, with slow robotic motions, she returned downstairs, running the long teeth of an ivory comb through her lavender locks.

            "You want to talk, Great-grandmother," she called as she entered the kitchen. Cologne's gnarled face popped up from a cupboard beneath the counter.

            "Yes, Shampoo." She hopped on to the table and began rifling through the shelves of spices that hung above. "Could you make some tea for us dear, it'd be nice to take it easy before the first customers arrive."

            Shampoo scowled but dutifully increased the heat beneath the kettle that was constantly on the stove, filling a nearby teapot with richly scented green leaves. She grabbed two cups; shallow, handless vessels with thin cracks marring the outside while the inner surface were lined with pale rings from previous use. Taking the kettle off the heat before it could fully boil she filled the pot, inhaling with some small relish the sweet smell of Jasmine. 

            The Amazon matriarch leaped from counter top and pogoed on her warty staff across the kitchen to a small pine table beneath the window, hopping easily to one of the mismatched chairs, waiting for her young descendant with her eyes cast through the pane of glass into the clouded sky. Shampoo joined her promptly, laying a tray laden with the teacups, pot and a couple of sweet biscuits onto the table, beside a thin vase holding a wilting but still colourful iris.              

Shampoo sat opposite Cologne, leaning over to poor tea first into her elder's cup and then into her own. "What you want tell Shampoo, Great‑grandmother?"

            Cologne glanced at her from the corner of her eyes, "I only said I wished to talk with you, my dear," the old woman said. She pivoted in her chair, moving away from the window and leaning over to grab her cup, the leathery skin of her face puckering as she blew gently at the steam wafting from her tea. "I believe that it is you, who have something to tell me."

            Shampoo swallowed. "What Great‑grandmother mean?"

            Cologne smirked wryly. "Don't play stupid with me, young one, Granny knows better." Her gaze dropped from her heir as she sipped at her tea, Shampoo almost sighed with relief. "Now child, tell me why you have been chasing that annoyance Happi around town every morning, without a care for your duties here or for your dignity as an Amazon." She sighed as she set her cup down once again, "And please tell me why you have been so insufferable to live with the past ten days?"

            Shampoo squirmed in her seat, suddenly feeling small, as she stared gloomily through the pale amber depths of her tea. 

            "Look at me when I talk to you, girl!" Cologne snapped, Shampoo's eyes darted up instantly. "I expected moping for a time," the Matriarch continued. "Your beloved venturing out to test himself, I can understand and forgive some small emotional turmoil." 

            "But Great‑grandmother…"

            The ancient woman raised her voice, cutting off Shampoo's weak protest as it crept from her throat. "However I had hoped that as a warrior, you would understand Ranma's decision to seek new challenges. I never thought that the young woman I had picked as the scion of three thousand years of heritage, would stoop to a ten day temper tantrum like some spoilt outsider girl." 

            Shampoo winced as those last three words were driven into her like nails. "Perhaps that is the truth now."

            "Would you care to elaborate on that, Shampoo?" Cologne said in a dangerously soft voice, her tone like ancient ice sliding on the mountainside.

            Shampoo has not realised she had spoken her thoughts aloud, her mouth opened and closed silently, brain frantically scrambling for something to say, some excuse to fill the silence and dissuade Cologne's falcon glare. Nothing came, and she was forced to snap her jaw shut with an audible click.

            Cologne's face softened, the creases and folds off her aged skin fell from the furrow of her brow the dimples of her cheek as she ventured a warm smile. "Tell me what troubles you, child," she chided. "Remember the wisdom of the warrior Xin Da, '_The unwise fool tells all of her fears, others will use them against her_…'"

            " '_The stubborn fool tells no one,' "_ Shampoo intoned from memory, picturing the worn, aged pages of the books her mother and Great‑grandmother had read to her as a small child. " '_She will use them against herself.' _"

            The smile on the old woman's face grew as she nodded. "You learnt those words well, but I read doubt in you, Shampoo. Why?"

            Shampoo frowned, wondering whether or not her Great-grandmother; Khu Lon, Matriarch of the Juketsuzoku, hailed as the wisest and greatest warrior of the last seven generations, could possible understand her worries. Her head was bowed low, but her eyes flicked up from the ripples in her tea to glance at her revered relative through her purple locks. She probed the old woman with a question of her own.

            "Can love be weakness, Great-grandmother?"

            Cologne blinked, "I'm afraid you're going to be more specific than that, Shampoo. It could be my old age but you don't seem to be talking sense."

            "That what other Elders in village say. Say strong men are good for eyes, good for bed and sometimes good for company. But no good for heart, make warrior weak."

            Her Great-grandmother snorted with contempt, "I taught you to respect the village Elders, but I also told you to take all that they say with a whole crate of salt. My sisters have a tendency to be stuck in their ways." She sighed and drained the remains of her tea. "Perhaps you had best start from the beginning." 

            Shampoo leant across to refill the Matriarch's cup, before settling back in her chair and gazing from the window. Tilting her head upwards to pear above the high rising building that crowded around the small restaurant, she watched the sun retreat behind the clouds, its presence a radiant halo behind a shroud of murky grey.

            "Few days ago Shampoo had been on delivery, was not too busy to Shampoo take time come back to Nekohanten, walk bike through town, and _window shop_." The last words had been forced out as a muted hiss. Her hands gripped the table, the knuckles turning white. "See nice dress, low cut in red with slit up leg, think make good for Airen when he return. Young couple come to store window, look at same dress." Her lips twisted into a scowl. "Girl was simpering fool, hang of mans arm like she have no legs of own, smiling all time at man as if he were god in skin. She talk about how pretty dress was, and ask man if he buy it her. When man say 'he not sure', girl start crying, eyes going teary like turn on faucet. Finally man give up, he see how much it cost and they go into shop." She remembered watching with disappointment as a store clerk came and removed the scarlet garment from the window, "Shampoo was disgusted." She had glanced at the girl, her irritation swelling as she compared the other woman to herself, knowing that she was far prettier and would look far sexier in that dress. With a sigh she turned away unable to stop wondering wistfully if the lost outfit would have been the one to get her beloveds attention, the one to make him see her as beautiful. That was when it had hit her.

            "That how Shampoo behave since meet Ranma," she half cried half growled, her nails scoring the table as she balled her hands into fists. "Every time he near by I act like girl, grabbing him, hugging him, jumping up and down." She shook her head roughly. "That no how Amazon warrior should act.

            "When Shampoo think of Ai Ren, it like proud Amazon dribble out and leave weak outsider girl." She frowned at the table surface, ready to hear the matriarch scornful rebuke. She looked with wide eyes up when all she heard was soft thump. Cologne had fallen from her chair and now rolled upon the kitchen floor, seized by paroxysms of laughter, her stunted, bony legs kicking at the air as she cackled.

            "Great-grandmother," Shampoo cried, scowling at the old woman.

            "Child," she managed to squeeze through her guffaws. "That is what men do," her laughter trailed off, and she sighed as she pulled herself back into her seat. "The good ones anyway," she added.

            "So Elders right," Shampoo grunted. "Fall in love with man is weakness."

            Cologne frowned; leaning forwards to peer into Shampoo's eyes with her narrow, wrinkled eyes. Shampoo shifted in her seat. The ancient Amazon leant back into her seat and sipped from her tea, peering into the cooling brew between sips as if reading the patterns formed by the rippling surface. "Let me tell you a story, Shampoo." She set the cup down and put her hands together, lacing her fingers.

            "When I was a girl, not much older than you are now, a man came to our village. He was a fascinating man, strong and brash and cocky. Much like your Ai Ren in some ways," the wistful smile dropped from her face twisting into a scowl. "The total opposite in many others. That was the first man I ever loved, though at first I fought against it, hoping that if I refused to he would not find a place in my heart, just as the Elders taught." Cologne shook her head and exhaled in a slow rush.

            "He wormed his way in and I fell for him, hard. He left the village as an enemy, but I followed him, determined to make him mine. Together we travelled through China and Asia, and it was bliss."

            The matriarch went silent, her litany paused with a tangible quiet and the old woman twisted her cup in her gnarled fingers, watching the golden fluid spin. "I should have known he would betray me, that was who he was. But I had blinded myself to his many faults, so in love was I. When the day came, I was devastated. I dared not go back to the village in my shame, and so wandered through China carrying the shards of my broken heart. Wondering what I had done wrong."

            "You no do anything wrong Great-grandmother, it stupid man's fault, you should have kill for betraying you."

            Cologne gave a shrug of her bony shoulders, "Maybe, Shampoo, but maybe not. Sure it was his fault, but as I was soon to learn I was not guiltless."

            "What happen?"

            "Well as I said, I was travelling through our homeland. Many martial artists were in those days; the nobility has split in to many clans who used the Art to strengthen the family. Many mysterious artefacts were scattered throughout the country, and new styles were springing from the hands of the masters. It was impossible for any martial artist to travel without being challenged by some warrior looking to test themselves, and as I tasted defeat after defeat I learned what I had done wrong."

            "Defeat," Shampoo gasped, the concept was something that she had never associated with her revered relative, a living legend of fighting prowess. It was like being told the sky was green or that the monkey sage was just a story.

            "Yes, child, I once had to learn from my defeats in battle just as young Ranma is learning to. However at the time I was convinced as you are now that everything I had learnt in the village about love and men was true. My time with my first love had made weak, the comforts of the outside world though much harder than the life of today was still easy compared to the harsh life of training and working as I had done back home. My skills had faded and fighters who would have once been a trifle defeated me, and I was sure it was all, that man's fault. So I began training harder than I had ever done before, challenging all who I encountered, determined to regain my strength and never let anyone take it from me again."

            Shampoo found herself nodding as her Great-grandmother spoke, her own feelings stirring like a modern echo of the Elders tale. She recalled a long, hard battle with the Okonomiyaki chef, fighting for the attentions of an amorous Ranma bewitched by a magical band-aid. They had exchanged blows from morning until the afternoon on a hot summers day, fists and feet against spatulas large and small, neither of them winning until Shampoo had seized on her opponents distraction and trapped Ukyo with a volley of thrown forks. Yet the young Amazon knew that she should have easily beaten the other woman, her strength, breeding and training were far superior but her abilities had dulled. She had watched the many warriors of Nerima grow stronger, her beloved and his rival the pig-boy Ryoga had both progressed by great strides, while she grew weaker. Even Mousse's talents had ripened, and Shampoo felt black fear creep into her heart as she thought of the blind boy again challenging her for her hand. Her hands tightened against the table as she fought back a shudder.

            "I was wrong back then, Shampoo. Maybe not completely but still very wrong." Shampoo blinked and then her brow furrowed at the Colognes words, but she said nothing and waiting for the other woman to continue. "I didn't learn my error until I met a Korean warrior called Hwang Siu Kim." The old woman cackled. "Oh that man handsome, even more so than son-in-law." Shampoo scowled; that could not be possible. "We fought many times though he was not quite my match. He was smitten by me, I was quite the beauty back then so I can't blame him." Shampoo rolled her eyes at the boast and Cologne chuckled, a sound like breaking leaves. "Events conspired to bring us together time and time again, but I refused to fall for his charms, determined not to let another man make me weak as before."

            Again Cologne sighed, and smiled towards Shampoo. "Love is very much like the ocean tide, eventually even the most stubborn rock gets worn away. So it was with my apathy towards him, and I fell in love for the second time. We spent many happy years together after that, and then I knew why it had all fallen apart the first time."

            "Why, Great-grandmother?"

            Cologne smirked enigmatically. "Is it not obvious, dear. It is the same reason Mousse has yet to capture your affections."

            Shampoo grimaced; lips twisting as if she had eaten something fowl. "Surely you not compare self to stupid duck-boy, Great-grandmother."

            "I'm don't relish the idea myself either," Cologne said wryly. "However the comparison stands. When Mousse fell in love for you, he devoted himself to you and tried to become the kind of man he thought you would love." The old woman's eyes flicked at the door to the restaurant where the boy in question continued to work. "It has gone so far that no one, not even Mousse himself even knows what sort of man he was or was capable of being. He tried too hard, as did I back then. Do you see what I'm trying to say, Shampoo?"

            Shampoo remained silent turning her gaze away from the withered woman and studied the fine cracks and flakes that ran through the paint upon the window frame.

            Cologne tutted and sighed. "You see, Shampoo, this weakness that men and love can bring is not their fault but our own. We allow ourselves to change, get caught up the whirlwind of first romance and we lose touch of ourselves. Feelings change us that much is inevitable, our surrounding alters us and that too cannot be stopped. However, whether the change is for good or for ill is the question. I tried to become what I thought that man wanted most so that he would not betray me. In the end I made it easier to do so by changing from the person who he had been attracted to. The second time it was an affair of equals, I remained myself as did he and we loved each dearly for it."

            "So you say Shampoo try too hard to win Ranma love?" 

            Cologne smiled and shook her head. "I merely told a story that I thought may provide some insight, the heart of the matter is what to you think, Shampoo?"

            Shampoo frowned. She let her Great-grandmother's wisdom form a filter for her thoughts. She poured her worries and fears through the revelation like light into a prism, sifting through the spectrum of ideas that emerged. Did she try to hard? Was on the same path as Mousse? She knew he did not trust her, was her ardour just pushing Ranma away? Perhaps that was the problem, did she care too much about Ranma's opinion of her? The questions swarmed and multiplied, overloading her thought.

            "Shampoo no know what think?" she admitted in a low grumble.

            "There's nothing wrong with that, child. No doubt I have given you too much food for thought to ingest in one sitting." Taking up her cup, she sipped away the last drops of tea. "Though perhaps you should consider another thing. Although this separation from your Ai ren is very painful, it may present an opportunity to assess the affects of your love for him, and the changes it might cause. A chance to determine who you are, who you want to be, and then maybe went you know this consider what son-in-law may want." She paused for a moment before adding a dry, "though I doubt he knows for himself."

            Shampoo let those words sink in. Who was she, what did she want? An Amazon warrior, she hoped. That is all she had ever wanted to be, the best in her tribe for her tribe, and the best she could be for herself. What did Ranma want? To be the best he could be? A smirk crossed her lips; that was why she loved him, and maybe that would be why he would love her? She thought of all the times she had clung to him, only to be pushed aside, and of the battles they had fought together, side by side.

            She rose to her feet, reaching over to once more fill her Great-grandmother's cup. The tea was cold now, but that did not matter, it would fit her designs. Holding the cup gently in both hands, careful not to spill a single drop she walked around the table, now standing before the small but powerful presence of the matriarch. The old woman said nothing, just sat in her chair with her tiny legs crossed watching the young Amazon like a hawk with her large, grey eyes. 

            Lowering herself to her knees, the hard tiles of the kitchen floor biting at her bones, she rose the cup before the Cologne with both hands. She bowed her head low, unable to see the ancient warrioress through a veil of lavender hair.  

            "Honoured Elder, one who is in search of knowledge and strength humbly asks for your teachings."

            Cologne smiled warmly, the gesture restoring some youth to her wrinkled face as it shone with affection. "Shampoo my dear, you never needed to ask." With a light touch she took the offered cup, and brought it to her lips for a dainty sip.

            Shampoo could not stop her self from grinning in reply. _Ranma has proven himself worthy of my love many times since he defeated me. Perhaps it is time I made myself worthy to share his path and his heart?_

***

            Rain and dew clung to the bare and sodden branches, each fluid sphere shimmering slightly as the wind whistled through the boughs, before they finally succumbed and toppled in a glistening arc to the moist ground. Pearly droplets glistening on the fine strands of a spiders web making the arachnid silk appears as hair thin threads of liquid light as they played with the wan glow of the grey sky.

            Ranma grimaced as he ducked beneath the web, the sight of its captured water made him glance anxiously at the dark clouds overhead, a prayer to hold on to his natural form floated silently on a puff of tensely exhaled air. He heard Ryoga snort from behind him as he slashed his umbrella through the air lazily, sending the spider's silk scattering with a tiny shower of released moisture.

            "Get a move on, Ranma," his companion grunted weaving around the trunk of a slanting ash tree to trudge ahead.

            "Just giving you a chance to keep up Ryoga, I got to keep an eye on you or you'll be trekking through the desert and asking camels for directions."

            Ryoga snorted, looking back of his shoulder with a scowl his fangs bared. "At least I'd be away from you jerk," he grumbled and continued walking. Ranma followed swiftly, sliding around the tightly knit trees as he moved closer to the lost boy.

              "That way I wouldn't be forced to wade through this damned forest because _someone_ managed to alienate us from the town by beating up a girl, so now we can't even take the pathway up the mountain." Ryoga continued, the volume of his voice ramping until he was roaring the last sentence.

            "Like you could keep to the road," Ranma muttered under his breath before replying in a louder tone. "Just let it go, Ryoga. We have to find that girl." He scowled at the bare but dense winters forest, striking out with a blurred knife hand at a branch in his path, severed twigs falling to ground like severed fingers. "Are you sure she didn't give you anymore details about where she lived?"

            Ryoga half-sighed, half-growled. "For the two-hundredth time, NO!" Ranma was now close enough to see the other boy's hazel eyes roll beneath his mop of thick, black hair. "All she said was that she lived somewhere on the mountain, she and her family are some sort of scholars."

            "Which is all well and good but its doesn't make finding her any easier." Ranma bit back a few curses and scowled, tilting his head to glare at the mist shrouded peak of Emei that towered above them. 

            "I don't know why you are so determined to find her, don't you think you've done enough," Ryoga said, frowning at him from the corner of his eyes. "I mean you did beat her up, a girl no less." The bandana-clad youth's jaw tighten, the sharp, white tip of a fang just visible against his lips as his mouth worked.

            Ranma could not blame Ryoga for his anger, he his own swell in his chest and all of it for himself. Nevertheless he shot some it upon his rival, growling out his rebuke.

            "She started it Ryoga, and you encouraged her."

            "Feh," Ryoga spat dismissively, "You deserved it, Ranma, and it was you not I who launched her into the sky."

            Ranma's hands tightened on the strap of his pack, trembling as he squeezed the material in his fist. Ryoga was right; he admitted silently, stomach twisting at the thought. The Hiryu Shoten Ha had been too much. His bile rose in his throat as he recalled the girl's panicked, frightened face as she was sucked into the whirlwind. He grimaced, his brow knitting as he cast his mind back to the fight. The girl had also known the technique, somehow, and was going to use it against him. What he had done he had done in self-defence. 

That was the crux of the dilemma. His father had told him that girls were weaker than boys, but he had also taught him to defend himself from attack and that the heart of the Anything-goes school lay in answering all challenges. He tried to avoid fighting women, but like everything else in life sometimes the fights were unavoidable. He had always given them less than what he knew they could handle, emphasising his victory with boasts and posturing. Making it all seem so easy to him that they knew he had beaten them; just as it had been with Shampoo, another battle that had come back to bite him in the butt. 

He could not avoid the fight with the Amazon, he had eaten what should have been her prize and the only way to make it right was to earn the reward for his self. He had watched the girl fight her previous opponent, knew she was a skilled warrior. A prolonged battle would only waste their time and force him to hurt her. So he had posed with insulting disregard, not even bothering to take a fighting stance. When Shampoo had charged he saw the weak spot and attacked it with forced lethargy. Sweeping the Amazon's leg from under her and sending her flying from the log, deliberately following through with his leg until it rose above his head, displaying his flexibility to show how easy it had been. In reflection he found it easy to understand why Shampoo gave her the Kiss of Death, and wondered if things may have been different, his life easier and his heart less burdened by her eventual affections if he had been less mocking.

Ryoga had continued in his lecture, his words touching on a similar subject as Ranma's own thoughts.

"You had to go and insult her Ranma, no wonder she attacked you. Just like with Akane, you have to mouth off, and instead of taking your lumps like a man, you use a violent move like the Hiryu Shoten Ha…"

Again the lost boy was right. Ranma scowled, detesting Ryoga's new insights. Maybe it was just like with Akane, the scenario did seem achingly familiar. In his anger at Ryoga for leaving him in the middle of the forest he had tried to embarrass him in front of the girl who hung rather close at his side. Knowing the how easily the other youth lost all decorum around girls he had thought it would be easy, but a offhand remark about the colour of the young woman's hair had inflamed her, just like a negligent comment about Akane's cooking or her martial arts would earn him a trip through the Tokyo sky. Then the girl had insulted her, and things had plummeted from there, until she had finally attacked, refusing to listen to his weak protests against the fight that arose as his pride gave way to his sense. 

The difference was that this girl was good, better than Akane or Shampoo, better than any girl he had ever fought. He had tried dodging and blocking but her unusual style came at him from all sides, wearing away at his guard and penetrating his defences, forcing him to counter attack. Still he tried to limit himself, using only passive techniques; redirection, throws and weak low kicks. It was not enough; so he slowly increased his force, which only served to increase her assault, unleashing powerful Ki attacks. 

Then came the Rising Dragon Wind. Ranma sighed and again stared at the mountain ahead, the fogs that swarmed around its top blurring its outline making it appear like the washed scene of a watercolour painting.  Was it right to use it? Willow had attempted it on him, but surely he could have thought of a better way to defend, a kick, a punch. He did not like the idea but it was better than dragging her unto the vortex to be spat out in to the distance and probably sent crashing through any number of branches before slamming into the ground. His stomach tried to tie itself in knots as the image of such a landing plagued his mind. Sure the blonde had known the techniques but was obviously unprepared to be caught in it her self. Could she take it?

Ranma sighed, despite his pledge to become a honourable man he had acted just like the jerk he had always been. His hand trailed across the silken fabric of his red shirt over his stomach, almost feeling his mother's disapproval at his actions. Ryoga said he should have taken his lumps like a man, well there was no way he was just going to stand there and let a girl he didn't know hit him (he'd had enough of that from living with Akane), but perhaps he should have simply taken her insults and let them wash over him. Instead he launched his own barbs and started a fight, and why because the girls had insulted his beauty, had mocked the looks of a _curse._ His vanity left a bitter taste in his mouth.

"Ranma," Ryoga snapped, stopping ahead and glaring daggers at him yanking his thoughts away. "Where are your usual excuses? Say something for yourself." The other boy revealed a single fang as his lips curled into a smirk. "Or am I finally witnessing Ranma Saotome take responsibility and feel guilty for being a jerk?"

"Shut your face, Ryoga," Ranma barked, pushing his rival aside roughly as he continued ahead. "We have to find her." _I may not have been able to stop myself screwing things up, but this time I will make up for it _he promised.

"Don't shove me, Ranma," Ryoga roared. 

Ranma spun twisting to avoid the lunge he knew was coming, as he dodged the fanged youths attack he felt goose bumps tingle upon his skin, and this was not coming from Ryoga. 

"Shut up, idiot" he hissed, wrapping an arm around the larger boy's waist he spun, clipping Ryoga's legs with his heel and projecting them both into the bristling bushes that choked the roots of the nearby trees. He heard a feral growl and felt Ryoga's knuckles dig into his ribs causing him to grunt. Ranma shifted his weight on top the lost one, pinning both of Ryoga's arms down across his chest and wrapping both legs around his hips, using his legs to hook the other fighter's shin and lift his feet from the ground, preventing him from gaining any leverage. He could already feel Ryoga start to squirm free, trying to slide his hips from beneath Ranma's weight. Using his elbows to press into the lost boy's sternum, he heard his rival's muted cry as the sharp bones poked sharply downwards. Hoping he could suppress the Hibiki's monstrous strength for a little longer he lifted his head to look into the other boys furious eyes, trying to speak urgently without words. Ryoga writhed like a caged beast, spittle frothing from his fangs as he snarled. Risking his defence, Ranma lifted a finger to his lips. 

"Trust me," he whispered. 

Ryoga's mouth opened for a rebuke, but remained silent as the sound of voices floated to them on the breeze. Mossy green-brown eyes met the blue-grey of the morning sky, and the bandana-clad youth stopped his struggling. He inhaled long and deep through his nose, filling his lungs as his teeth clenched, and with a visible effort he nodded shortly.

With a sigh Ranma rolled to the side, suppressing a wince as thorns tore at his exposed skin, setting onto the wet ground he listened and watched through barbed brambles and stalks of grass.    

A thrashing sound grew louder, reaching an apex as two men came crashing at a run through the brush, emerging into a clearing that had been several paces ahead on Ranma and Ryoga's previous pass. Three other men joined them from the opposite direction, melting out of the shadows of the tightly knit trees. They were all dressed in loose, blue habits. The folds were held back by sashes of braided leather, wrapped around their waist so that the robes hung like a azure tail down the back of their legs. They wore baggy trousers of a course brown fabric, tied around at the ankles above the thick black wrappings that covered their feet, stained with the dirt of their travel.

 The only other common factor between the five was the movements, their posture and steps holding fluid grace of trained warriors. 

The newcomers glanced around the clearing and then the five men began chattering in Chinese, punctuating their words with wild hand gestures at each other and at the surrounding forest.

"What are they on about?" Ranma asked Ryoga softly.

"They're some sort of guards, and they've been looking for us," Ryoga grumbled. "Or at least they've been looking for a 'interloper' said to be travelling with a 'foul and offensive redheaded girl'" he shot a pointed glare at Ranma. "This is all your fault."

Ranma sighed, "Think of a new line and shut up, moron," he grunted.

            A cry rose from the men, one of the men, a short, wiry figure with a straggled plait of dark hair scrambled into the trees waving his arms at the object that lay slumped in the grass. Ryoga's pack, its pockets bulging, remained where he had discarded it before attacking the Saotome heir. Ranma winced as he saw his own bag protruding from the tangled growth of long grass, thistles and tree roots where it had landed when he had flung it aside to dive into the bushes with the lost boy. 

"They'll wait by the bag in case we come back," he guessed. "We'll have to take them on." Despite the reluctance in his tone, Ranma could not fight the smirk that slipped on to his face.

The other men joined the small one, who had pulled the bag upright, moist blades of grass falling from it as it moved. His rat-like face screwed into a frown and he wrapped his hand the handle of the ribbed, red umbrella that was strapped to the packs top. With a few yanks the weapon came free, and both it and the man dropped sharply to the floor with a wet thump. Grumbling what seemed to be curses, he began pulling at the umbrella. The sleeves of his robes had ridden up to reveal the bunching muscles of his forearms as he tried to lift the formidable weight, his torso jerking as he brought more of his body behind the effort. The umbrella lifted a few inches before plummeting to the ground again, deepening the impression of crushed grass and squashed mud it had made.

He yelled at his companions, still scowling at the umbrella as he stepped away. 

The largest man chuckled and strode over to the items, the swelling of his broad chest noticeable even through his the folds of his habit. He scratched at his tight curls of dark hair, before stopping to grasp the umbrella's handle. After an unsuccessful attempt to lift it using single hand, he seized it in two fists and yanked it up with a strong heave. He staggered back a few steps as the weight shifted in his grasp. Widening his stance and bending his knees the broad fighter hefted the weapon experimentally, waving it in small circles with first two hands then just one, the motion of the single hand jerky and strained. After a while he examined the umbrella's broad blunt tip and then after a stiff nod he began to swipe and slash at the air, his knees bending and shifting and feet digging into the dirt as he treated the umbrella like the club he had guessed it to be. Twisting over his shoulder he chuckled something to his friends, who shrugged.

Ranma heard a low growl and then a snap, Ryoga's fangs were bared and the mangled remains of several fell from his shaking fists. He pounded his fist into the ground hard enough for Ranma to feel the tremor, and used it to surge upwards. The lost boy tore through the sticks and thorns of the bush, seizing the debris in his way and tearing it aside and he stood up strode forwards, the sounds of tearing fabric just audible above the noise of the ripped and crushed vegetation. 

With as much as a shrug as he could manage in his prone position, Ranma crawled quietly from beneath the concealing shrubs and following behind, patting and brushing at the leaves and smudges on his shirt and pants.

Ryoga stalked towards the men who watched his approach with narrowed eyes, their feet shifting on the grass as their bodies tensed and their hands rose with palms outwards into a wary guard. The lost boy took no notice, marching towards the larger man with a dark scowl, his heels thumped against the ground with every step and his shoulders heaved as his rolled his fingers into fists, knuckles cracking. The guard watched him approach, holding the umbrella out before him with both hands like a sword.

The gesture made the bandana‑clad youths eyes narrow and as soon as he was close enough he tore the weapon from the man's huge hands with a fierce yank, snarling something in fluent Chinese. Ryoga's opponent replied with a cocky sneer, which dropped into grimace, at the lost one's short comeback, the muscles in his angular jaw swelling. 

The man's great shoulders quivered as he glared as if to reduce the Japanese boy to dust with his eyes, he bit out a few short words through grit teeth. Ranma saw the other youth shrug and step back with a smirk, propping the umbrella on his right shoulder as he lifted his left hand and crooked his four fingers in a beckoning gesture.

Ranma shrugged and buried his hands in his pockets as the large man threw himself forwards with a roar. _Ryoga can handle it, _he thought as the lost boy stepped to the outside, swinging the umbrella in a small circle to bat aside the palm strike that shot at his face. Twisting his arm at the elbow he clubbed the attacker across the back, the tip of the weapon whipping into the kidney. The man growled in pain and stumbled forwards, one arm bent behind him to clutch at his spine while the other nursed the bruised organ. _Besides, it's not often I get to watch as a third person, _Ranma thought wryly, eyes trained on his rival's every move and mind comparing each action to their previous bouts.

A second fighter gave a shout and charged from behind. Ryoga's eyes darted, glancing from the corner of his eyes as he spun the umbrella in his hand, reversing his grip on the handle. With a step backwards Ryoga intercepted his new attacker with his back still turned. He swung his arm back, elbow turning to thrust the umbrella back beneath his armpit and into the man's sternum, knocking him off his feet with a hard gasp of expelled air. 

The first attacker had recovered and came at Ryoga again, lunging low with arms like pincers for the tackle. Ranma's eyebrows flew upwards as he watched the lost one throw his umbrella forwards with a flick of his wrist, sending the bamboo weapon spinning through the air so as the blunted point arced upward it caught the large fighter square on the chin like an uppercut fist. The man reeled and Ranma's jaw dropped as he watched Ryoga shoot forwards, and slam the butt of the still falling umbrella precisely so that it would fly forwards into his opponents nose. The blow whipped the man's face around, and Ryoga grabbed the umbrella as it recoiled from the strike at with a flourish, brought it round in an arc to slam into the top of his foe's battered head. The man crumpled to the floor, out before he hit the dirt.

            The small man with the ragged braid came in from the left, sweeping the folds of his robes back as he swung his foot around in a vicious arc at Ryoga's head. The youth dropped into a crouch, folding on leg across the ground in front of him as he sat on his haunches and bowed his head, slashing into the shin of the rat like man's supporting leg and ploughing the limb from beneath him. He hit the floor hard enough to make his head bounce, even in the soft mud. His weak cry became a loud squawk of pain as Ryoga stepping on his back, planting his heel in between the shoulder blade and pressing him further into the dirt as the lost boy made a fencer's lunge, poking the returning second attacker in his already abused chest and stopping his rush.

            The small man squealed again as Ryoga pushed off from his back to hop forwards and thrust his foot into the second man's gut. The kick folded the assailant around his leg. The man bent double with a straggled groan as the fanged youth retracted his foot, and brought the pommel of his umbrella down like a hammer upon the exposed base of his opponent's skull. The man slumped forwards into unconsciousness but Ryoga seized the collar of his robes in his spare fist and flung him into the path of a fourth attacker.

            At this moment the fifth guard, a tall rangy figure with a pointed beard and unruly brown hair took notice of Ranma's presence and leapt forwards with his right hand outstretched, seizing a fistful of Ranma's shirt at his left shoulder. With a tired sigh the pigtailed boy slipped to the inside just as the man's fingers curled around the silken fabric. Pulling his hands from his pocket he reached under the man's grip with his right seizing the offending arm at the crease of the elbow and pressing firmly on a nerve cluster with his fingers. His opponent yelped and tried to pull away but Ranma's left hand had seized the fist that gripped his shirt. Pulling sharply with his right hand, Ranma forced the man's arm to bend while pushing the limb captured in his left in an arc over and towards the man's back. The attacker cried out as his arm was twisted the wrong way. His elbow was now in front of his face and his hand behind him and being pushed towards the small of his back. Ranma's stepped in close and propped the back of the man's arching shoulder against the top of his own, earning a loud yell by his ear as his foe protested the twisting of his joints, the shoulder being held on the verge of popping from its place.

            Ranma turned back to the fight, the bearded man hissed at the movement, so he pulled down gently on the wrist in his hands, applying more pressure to the locked joint and ceasing the man's struggles immediately. 

            Ryoga was now defending against the fourth attacker who had dumped his unconscious comrade to the side and resumed his assault. He was more skilled than his fellows, managing to avoid the umbrella swipe at his head and the downward slash that followed. As Ryoga jabbed with the bamboo club and then spun full circle to lash out with his heel, Ranma noticed the skinny guard gather himself from the ground. 

            He released the bearded man from the lock by straightening the captured arm without breaking it. As expected the man jerked backwards in a desperate attempt to escape, but Ranma stepped in to him as he pulled and spun around. Drawn into the sudden twist by his still held hand, the guard was tossed over the leg that Ranma had left outstretched and was dropped hard into the mud by a jerk of the braided youth's shoulder. As soon as he had the opponent on the ground Ranma punched him swift and light between the eyes, knocking him out, before turning to see if Ryoga had noticed the small man's recovery.

            He apparently had because as the rat-like warrior picked himself up and began walking slowly and warily towards the lost boy's back, he was sent crashing down again as Ryoga flung the umbrella absently over his shoulder, the brolly turned javelin struck the wiry figure in the centre of his forehead and floored him. 

            Free of the umbrella's weight Ryoga sped up his hand to hand, swinging his fist in two mighty roundhouses that the fourth man just barely dodged, and followed with a powerful kick that his opponent blocked on crossed forearms but was still bowled from his feet by the blow's force. Ryoga leapt high into the air and descended with a punch. The guard just managed to roll aside as the lost boy's fist cratered into ed the earth where his chest had been, springing back up and slamming two palm strikes into Ryoga's face. 

            The boy blinked at the impacts and then bore his fangs in a wide grin. The man's mouth fell open and his eyes widened, barely managing to stop gawping as Ryoga launched a fist at his head. Ranma frowned, his brow knitting together as he watched the man weave around his rival's attack with a familiar swinging, circling step that set his hairs on end. 

            The guard twisted into a kick, whipping his leg into Ryoga's chest. The lost boy barely grunted, but a wince twisted the man's face and as he brought his foot back he limped slightly, grimacing as his weight shifted to the tender limp. In his attackers moment of weakness Ryoga swung a wild backhand, his fist crashing into the fighters jaw like a mace and sent him flying against a tree trunk and slumping to the ground. 

            Ryoga twisted his neck, glaring across the clearing for another opponent, as his green eyes locked on to Ranma his lips twisted. "Don't butt into my fights, Ranma," he growled eyebrow quirking at the man laid motionless at the pigtailed boy's feet.  "I don't need your help!"

            "He came for me." Ranma shrugged, walking across the clearing to where Ryoga had bent to recover his umbrella from beside the smaller fighter's form. "Went a bit overboard don't you think?" he asked sweeping his gaze across the clearing, frowning at the large man's bloodied face and the tree now standing crooked with a patch of bark stripped by the fourth man's impact.

            "You're not the only one who can drag a fight out for fun," Ryoga said in a low tone. "Besides, I like this umbrella."

            Ranma regarded the weapon of waxed red fabric and bamboo ribs as the lost boy hefted it over his shoulder, "You've never said where you got the damn thing anyway." He was sure that such umbrella's could not be found at festival stalls. 

            Ryoga turned to face him, eyes seeming to gaze through him. Then those hazel irises became shimmering and distant and he ducked his head, staring at the ground. "Hong Kong," he grunted after a while.

            "I should have known," a new voice said through the rich chuckles that rang through the clearing. "Only you could cause so much trouble, Ranma."

            The two martial artists whirled towards the source of the words, Ryoga brandishing his umbrella defensively, while Ranma's body tensed his hands rolling into fist as he watched the newcomer approach through narrowed eyes.

            Sunlight glinted of the round lenses of the man's glasses as he pushed them further up the bridge of his nose with his fingers, and his face was lit by a gentle smile that Ranma had not seen in what suddenly seemed to be centuries.

            "Dr Tofu?"

***

            Ling Ling sighed as her sister crawled along the rocks frowning at the ground.

"Are you sure it came this way, Lung Lung?"

            "It's a mountain lion isn't it?" the green-haired girl snapped in retort. "And the tracks lead the way."

            "So now you're looking for even more foot prints in stone?" 

            Lung Lung jerked and snarled back "Just carrying on looking and let me worry about that?"

            "Fine, fine sorry to interrupt." Ling Ling said, holding her hands up in a calming gesture." She returned her gaze to the surroundings, walking restlessly along the cragged bluff that she and her sister were poised on. On the horizon beneath the wash of clouds, she could see the wooden roofs of her village appearing like tiny pictures between the trees. See swung her gaze over the beaten dirty trails that had led them up here, weaving its sinuous way amongst the forest trees and past the Amazon paddy fields, the rice stalks poking through a pool of diamonds as the wind rippled the fields fluid surface. To the north she could see the veil of mist that roiled continuously around the site of Jusenkyo, shrouding the cursed pools from innocent and curious eyes.

            Humming a random tune, Ling Ling gave up. She could not see the lion and since it probably knew they were hunting it, knew it would not be tempted to show its self. She hefted her trident in both hands and brought it to rest across her shoulders, pacing across the pale rocks and scuffing at the fine dust with her shoes. 

            "Stop making such a racket," Lung Lung growled. "I can't concentrate." She resumed running her hands along the stone, sniffing at the air. Ling Ling muttered under her breath and moved to sit by a stack of boulders that lay in a heap by the rock face. 

            Her weight continued to sink as with a loud crack the rocks gave way beneath her, seeming to crumble through the mountain and sending her tumbling into darkness, before the lights flashed for an instant before her eyes. 

            "Ling Ling are you okay?"

            She opened her eyes at the sound of her sister's panicked voice and winced, as the streams of light that flooded from the hole above her seemed painfully bright compared to the blackness that surrounded her. Ling Ling pulled herself upright, groaning as her muscles protested the act. She glanced back at the hole that she had dropped through, where the shock of jade hair marked her sisters curious and concerned face, and thanked her Amazonian toughness. Spitting out the dust that had caked her lips she wiped at the sticky fluid she felt trickle down her chin, holding her hand up to the light to see the crimson smear that confirmed it as blood.

            "Ling Ling? Sister?" Lung Lung called, her voice starting to waver.

            "I'm okay." Ling Ling called back, pushing a shattered chuck of stone away to gather herself to her feet, her knees shaking as pain blossomed in her ankles. She coughed and waved her arms at the dust that swarmed in the beam of light that shot in from the hole above. Moving to edge she squinted into the gloom as shapes began to coalesce in the meagre glow. 

            She was in some sort of chamber. The smoothness of the wall beneath her fingers told her this was no natural formation, and driven by curiosity that swelled in her stomach she stepped forwards cautiously, trying to make sense as the room's features were slowly revealed. There was a rustling and a crunch beneath her slippers as she moved, glancing at the floor she saw that it was littered with the fragments of paper scattered disorderly amongst the dust. She glanced at where the chamber was illuminated by the light from above, and saw broken and charred pieces of wood from what had once been shelves jumbled along the walls. 

            Her next step was halted as her pelvis bumped into something in the darkness. She reached out and lay her hands on what seemed to be a table of cold stone, it was circular she discovered as she felt the curve of its edge. Her intrepid fingers also found more papers strewn across the slab. She grabbed a handful and stepped back to regard her findings in the light.

            Beneath some smudged writings was a skilled but simple drawing of inked lines. It depicted a figure crouching upon crossed and folded legs, body coiled but head held high and hands raised one held flat across his chest while the other was poised aloft, two fingers outstretched and forked. Ling Ling's brow bunched with recognition. It was the Snake Flicks its Tongue posture from the Amazonian Divine Battle Fist, an old and powerful style that the matriarch had taught her family alone.

            Her frown dissolved as she flipped through the other papers she had gathered, all had similar drawings and all were of combat postures and techniques; from hand to hand, to weapons and even Ki manipulation. The writings around the images were old and faded, yet she just recognise the criticisms and complaints against that were listed against the depicted movements speed, strength and vulnerability, some drawings evn having thick crosses painted through them. Some of the techniques she recognised as Amazon, others she had never seen the like of before.

            "Ling Ling," her twin called. "Ling Ling!"

            "What?" she snapped, looking up from the mysterious pages.

            "What's that on the wall?" the girl replied sticking an arm in through the hole to point the wall across the room from where Ling Ling stood at the very edge of the glow that streamed from outside.

            Ling Ling rolled the pages in her hand and squinted at the spot indicted by Lung Lung's outstretched finger. Through the sandy dust and cobwebs that coated the chamber's walls she should see glimmers of colour against the smooth, pale stone. Moving across she placed her hand against the cold rock and brushed away the grime, the dust coming off thick against her hand and falling to the floor. Her eyes widened as hidden images came into the light for the first time in centuries.

            A woman with bright scarlet hair was rendered in flaking paint, twisting her body into a kick while beside her another woman with tresses the colour of the sea threw a fist into the sky, a hurricane blossoming at her side. Both women wore Amazonian garb, as did the woman depicted above them, who crouched low hands held before here like claws. However the figure next to her in the same pose was definitely not an Amazon, his skin was covered in mottled black spots and stripes, the details of his teeth showed pointed fangs and his eyes shone in silver gild. Elsewhere on the mural another animal man, this time with cat like ears and a long bushy tail, launched himself into a flipping kick that was blocked with a smile on the talon like fists of a woman who hung in the hair, suspended by the outstretched span of her brilliant white wings. 

            Ling Lings mouth worked but her voice seemed to catch and cling in her throat. Swallowing she forced the sound out from her mouth, forcing it into trembling words.

            "Lung Lung, I think you should bring an Elder."

***

            White foam sprayed around the rocks that sat in the streams path, the fast flowing water was kicked into frenzy as it wove through the boulders, each wave crashing into another and churning around the wet stones. Ahead the water calmed, widening into a shallow pool were the rippled weaken and died. The water became like glass, a mirror that reflected the bare image of the leafless trees, the dark ferns in perfect clarity. Black clouds swarmed in the pools surface as they did in the grey of the winter sky.

            Ranma frowned at the babbling stream, rubbing the sore swelling on the back of his head where Ryoga had struck him in return for launching them in to the bushes. Keeping his distance from the cold water's flow he watched the Doctor, shrug the small pack from his shoulders. 

            The man looked much as he had over a year ago when his clinic and closed and he a vanished without a word. The circular glasses that still framed his dark eyes, that glinted with intelligence as he swung his gaze over their surroundings. His dark brown hair hand grown longer, though his still wore it as he always had, the thick brown fringe parting around his face now hung to his chin and the neat tail now laying between his shoulder blades. The smile was the most familiar the small but warm curve to his lips that convinced everyone that he was the perfect man for the equally gentle Kasumi Tendo.

            "Are you sure it's okay to leave those guys back there?" Ranma asked, ignoring Ryoga's pointed snort as he too slung the bag from his shoulders, yet kept the umbrella protectively his fist.

            "They'll be fine," Tofu replied in a light tone, waving Ranma's concerns away with a sweep of his hand. "The Order trains their warrior harder than that."

            "Order?" the lost boy asked, before Ranma could give voice to his own similar thoughts.

            "The Heavenly Order of the Tao," Tofu answered settling himself on the flat surface of a nearby rock. "They're the ones who you've managed to upset, and the one's who sent me those guys after you, and me."

            "You?" Ryoga gasped.

            "Yes, I'm the only Japanese student," The doctor said with a smile and a shrug. "Master Locke felt that the Japanese trouble makers that appeared in their lands might be more willing to explain themselves to a countryman." He pulled his backpack over and dug around, extracting two bottles of soda and tossing them to the pair.

            Ranma snagged one out of the air with a blur but did not open it. Ignoring Ryoga's grumbling about not being a troublemaker, he sat opposite the older man upon the hollowing out corpse of a petrified log.

            "This has something to do with that blonde chick I fought the other day. Doesn't it" he inquired, tapping absently on the lid of his soda, remembering where he had seen the guards fighting style before.

            Tofu chuckled, "Indeed Ranma. That 'blonde chick' is one of their most senior masters."

            Feeling his brow furrow as he scowled Ranma flicked a glance at Ryoga whose eyes had widened and his eyebrows had disappeared beneath his bandana. "She never told me that," he heard the other boy murmur.

            Ranma sighed, "Sit down, Ryoga. This will probably be a long story."

            Ryoga turned back and forth, eyes scanning across the ground for some place to sit. Seeing nothing but wet dirt and pebbles he growled and dragged his heels to share the log with Ranma, elbowing the pigtailed youth sharply and ordered him to move up. Ranma rolled his eyes but did as asked.

            "So who are these people and what have they got against me?"

            "You means besides the obvious fact you're a jerk," Ryoga grunted dryly.

            Suppressing the urge to elbow the fanged boy's smart mouth, Ranma kept his eyes locked on Tofu's awaiting an answer. The doctor kept on smiling.

            "In good time, Ranma. First could you tell me what you know about Taoism?"

            Ranma blinked, "It's some kind of religion isn't it?" _What the hell does that have to do with anything?_ "Like Buddhism."

            Tofu shook his head. "No, Ranma, although Taoists do emphasise meditation and inner peace like Buddhists the Taoist line of belief is quite different.

            "The Taoist believe in nature in its highest," he explained. "That the universe is governed by a force that set everything into flawless, natural order. They call this order the Tao. It is the essence of perfection and envelops everything into a cycle, where everything starts as one unified whole, and then splits through elements and to manifest the world and all its variety."

            Ranma snorted, "Anyone who believe in natural order has never been to Nerima." 

            The Doctor laughed, "No, I supposed not. However you have just touched one of the great paradoxes of Taoism and of life. If the universe is governed by order, why is the world so chaotic? The fact is that chaos is just a facet of order."

            "That makes no sense," Ryoga said. "Chaos and Order are opposite things."

            "Yes they are," Tofu agreed, bending down his stretched out a finger and began to scratch at the dirt, drawing a circle that he divided by a sinuous line down the middle and then poked two dots into the pattern. "Consider the Ying and Yang, the balance of opposites into a greater whole. Chaos and order are simply opposing but complimentary parts of the higher force of the Tao. Such opposites are evident in all aspects of life. Such as men and women, opposite in many ways but both genders need each other, which is why love exists." A faint blush coloured the doctor's cheeks, which made Ranma's lips curl to a small smile.

            "You mean like positive and negative charges, which is how electricity and stuff works?" he asked.

            Tofu blinked rapidly, "Uh yes…that's another good example."

            "How would know about that stuff, Ranma." Ryoga muttered loftily, glancing at him from the corner of his eyes.

            "Someone gave me a book," he replied in a curt voice, thinking about Cologne's gift that was stuffed in to the back of his pack.

            "And you read it?" the lost boy's hand slapped over his mouth as he gave an exaggerated gasp. Ranma's hand trembled as he fought the urge to belt the other youth into the skyline. 

            "As you've pointed out western science is slowly beginning to understand what has been part of Chinese wisdom for thousands of years." Tofu continued interjecting between the teenagers argument. "My teacher has told me of something called Chaos theory, which shows that even in seemingly sensible occurrences, there is an element of disorder that shows that similar events do not have similar outcomes. Like how a drop of water that falls onto the same spot on your hand, will roll in a different direction as another one."

            Both boys nodded, they had seen Jurassic park too.

            "However even in this chaos lurks a sense of order so that it can be explained by western mathematics. However physicists have only grasped half of the truth when they realised the relation of disorder and energy. They realised that when energy flows through objects as heat, they grow more anarchic, more muddled. They call this disorder Entropy." 

            "What does this have to do with Willow and the people that Ranma managed to piss off?" Ryoga growled, fiddling with a small stone as his feet tapped against the ground.

            "Just a moment Ryoga, I'm explaining as fast as I can." Tofu said, his smile never slipping. "The Second Law says that the entropy of this world can only ever increase without external energies, thus the natural order of things is to grow more chaotic. To restore order, one must put in work and energy. Think of it like a bedroom, unless you take the time and effort to clean it, it will steadily grow messier and messier."

            Tofu paused glancing at his audience, Ryoga still scowled impatiently but Ranma had leant forward as he listened and nodded to show his understanding. The doctor smiled as he adjusted his glances and continued.

            "However as I said scientists as yet have only put together half of the puzzle. It is true that in natural the universe grows more muddled, but as the Ying Yang shows, chaos is just one half of the Tao. Just as the flow of heat both causes and is produced by the increasing disorder, there is another energy that ripples through the cosmos to restore order."

            "Ki," Ranma gasped, eyes widening as realisation came on him like the light that creeps of the horizon from a rising sun.

            Tofu's grin grew and he nodded. "Ki is the life force that nourishes the order of the Tao. All things in the world, time and space, are cyclic. Order falls to chaos and warmth flows like exhaust, but then Ki returns order to all things."

            Ryoga's fangs chewed at his lips. "Willow said something similar; that her style of martial arts concentrated on the harmonisation and development of Ki. She called it internal martial arts rather than external muscle power."

            "Yes," Tofu confirmed. "The Devine Order of the Tao, are an ancient society who have lived on the mountain for millennia. In keeping with our physics analogy, I suppose they could be thought of as research scientists of Ki."

            "Ki Scientists?" Ranma repeated, lifting an eyebrow.

            "In a way," the older man said with a shrug. "Though they meditate rather than use experiments they have the same aim, to understand the ways of nature and gain a deeper understanding of the Tao. Through their meditations and through exercise they try to synchronise their bodies Ki cycle with that of the world around them, and through that bond learn how the energy manifests itself through the eight phases of nature."

            "What phases?" Ranma broke in.

            Tofu glanced up, eyes wide behind the lenses of his glasses. "Did I not mention that?" Seeing the other boy shake his head, his rubbed at the base of his skull sheepishly. "Sorry

            "Many centuries ago a wise sage named Bao Xi, meditated on the Tao had a revelation. He determined that the energy of the Tao came through many changes and divisions as it permeates through the universe." He leaned over to the mud again and beside his rendering of the Ying Yang, he drew a long horizontal line. "First from nothing comes something small, which blossom in to Tai Chi, the grand ultimate and the inspiration for another internal martial art." He gestured at his line. "From the Tai Chi come the two poles, Ying and Yang, representing the unity of opposites." Beneath the line he drew two smaller one, one whole and the other broken. "From the poles come four elements Si Xiang," He scratched four symbols of unbroken and broken lines in the dirt and then eight small icons beneath. "The four elements split into eight trigrams or Bagua which represent the eight phases of nature."

            Ryoga continued to frown at the diagram while Ranma met the doctor's eyes, eyes narrowed with thought.

            "Bao Xi wrote his theories into a book known as the Yi Ching, the book of changes. The Bagua are the most important the trigrams represent the cycle of Ki in nature. Ki begins in the heavens; here it is pure energy with no shape, only intent. However it condenses like rain and falls to the earth." He inscribed a downward arc in the air with his finger. "As it does so the intent becomes form and order. However the form is lose to chaos and heat, rising like warm air back to the heaven." The finger curved as a back to the origin and completing the circuit.

            "This is known as the greater cycle. As the Ki energy transverses the cycle it shift thro many forms and manifests itself as different types of energy." The Doctor began pointing at different parts of the invisible circle. "Thunder, Fire, Water, Mountain, Lake, Wind combined with the Heavens and Earth are the eight phases."

            "You said something about our bodies having a Ki cycle?" Ryoga reminded.

            "The lesser cycle," Tofu supplied with a nod. "The body is constantly keeping its cells and organs in a state of order, this requires like the universe requires Ki energy. This Ki flows from the head, where its is formless intention in the mind, downwards and is stored in the Dan Tien, or as you more like know it, the Hara." The doctor opened the black fabric of his gi to tap to fingers at his abdomen, indicating a point about a thumbs length from his navel. "Nearly all methods of focussing and using this inner energy mention this spot in some form or another."

            "That's were I feel it," Ryoga said, his voice a touch breathless. "When I draw my heavy Ki in for the Shi Shi Hokodan, I feel a swelling. It's like a large weight is inflating inside my stomach, then a push it through my hands." 

            Ranma nodded, familiar with the experience from his use of the Moko Takabisha, yet instead of a weight he felt a light and restless surging, like a fire fighting to get loose.

            Doctor Tofu's smile had dropped into a small frown. "You know the Shi Shi Hokodan?" He didn't even wait for the lost boy's reply as he leant forwards and narrowed his eyes the young Hibiki. "Yes I can see it now, the thickness of your aura. Be careful, Ryoga, to use that technique too much is not very…" his brow furrowed, "healthy" he finished after a moment.

            "Uh Doc," Ranma said. "The Order?"

            Tofu shook his head and his grin was back on his face in a flash. "Yes, anyway." He paused and cleared his throat. "The lesser cycle of the human body is much like the greater cycle in the natural world. It divides into the eight phases as it moves through the eight organs, kidneys, liver, stomach, heart, lungs, spine, spleen and brain. The Ki also travels through eight channels around the body and into the eight extremities, hands, feet, legs, chest, back, hips, abdomen and head. This is the basis of shiatsu and other acupressure medicines and much herb lore, depending on where the Ki is at what times. No doubt this is also how Elder Cologne and Master Happosai continue to live after so many years. Death is essential the body

            "The Order of the Tao, by attuning their bodies cycle with the cycle of nature try to learn from the Tao's perfection and emulate it within themselves. By learning about the Ki flow in the world and in themselves they can apply that knowledge in these medicines and in other fields. Such as by understanding the flow of the energies of the winds and waters they can predict the weather and the motions of the tides. Such talents they share freely with the people, which makes them deeply revered my the folk of this mountain."

            That explained the shock and fury on the faces of the townspeople after his fight with Willow, they had looked ready to mob the two Japanese youth and lynch them from the rafters of the café.

            "So why the martial arts, if they are scientists?" Ranma queried.

            "The Emei martial arts started as exercises to harmonise one's own life force with the greater cycle, using relaxed breathings methods and circular body motions. Eventually they blossomed in to the internal fighting styles of Emei, including the most powerful techniques of Bagua Zhang, the full secrets of which are taught only to the senior masters."

            "Like that blonde girl?" Ranma said, glancing at the doctor for confirmation.

            "Girl?" Ryoga spat. "Damn it, Ranma, she had a name you jerk."

            "Calm down, Ryoga, I'm not insulting your girlfriend."

            As expected that comment quietened the lost one as his face flushed scarlet. He muttered quiet and muddled denials as he suddenly became interested in the little circles his index fingers made around each other. Ranma gestured for the Doctor to continue his explanation.

            "Indeed, she probably does have a name." Tofu muttered in a wondering tone, eyes rolling upwards as he thought.  "However the name she took as her own when she ascended to the council was Willow, master of winds. The Order has many members, scholars and researchers and fighters, who help gather and archive their wealth of knowledge. Most are orphans taken in by the order, however some have come seeking wisdom. 

"They are led by a council of eight masters, the ones who have displayed the greatest affinity to the phases. Each of the eight were chosen for by the previous master as soon as their talents are recognised, and are taught the greatest secrets of the Order, including the most powerful martial arts and the secrets of manipulating the bodies Ki energy to emulate the forces of nature."

"That explains how she knew the Hiryu Shoten Ha," Ranma grumbled feeling the last piece fall into place with a snap.

"The hurricane attack you used to defeat Happosai for the Moxibustion cure?" Tofu pushed his glassed further along his nose and he gave a thoughtful _hmm. _"I can see how that would work. If they learnt how Ki energy forms tornados they would be able to modify that knowledge to combat. That is the power of Emei's Arts, what makes the masters so dangerous, and what makes them interested in you, Ranma. That you defeated on of them has caused quite a stir on this mountain. Master Locke said it has been over a hundred years since any of them has lost a fight."

"You've mentioned this Locke before, Doc." Ranma said slowly. "Who is he, and you still haven't said why you are here in China."

"Ranma!" Ryoga cried aghast.   

"It a fair question, Ranma. I suppose I should explain my absence from Nerima." Tofu said, scratching at the back of his head with a small chuckle. "Locke is the Master of the Lakes, the oldest of the Eight Masters, and the keeper of the Order's archives. A most wise and knowledgeable man, he is also my teacher. You see I came to Emei mountain for the Order's knowledge of Ki control, I wanted to gain more discipline over my inner energies to help me with a certain condition." Red coloured the man's cheeks and the lenses of his glasses had become misty. At once Ranma understood.

"I see," he said simply, willing to leave it at that but Ryoga had to open his fanged mouth.

"What? What's wrong with you Doctor Tofu? Is it serious?" the lost boys tone grew high and straggled.

This time the Ranma did strike out, bashed the other youth's skull with his fist. "Shut up, idiot."

"It's okay," the older man said with a widening grin, but his blush grew, spreading like scarlet fire over his face. "Master Locke called it 'love fever', you see I feel quite strongly for this girl and when I was around her I would act a little…odd."

"He made you and your nosebleeds look suave, Ryoga," Ranma expanded with a sorry shake of his head, pigtail swaying. "He would just go nuts, poor guy, dancing with that skeleton." He noticed Tofu lowering his head with a frown. "Sorry Doc."

"Who was the girl?" Ryoga asked, suspicion larding his tone. "Was it Akane?"

"Why the hell would it be that, tomboy?" Ranma yelled instinctively, prompting Ryoga's snarl.

"Don't call her that," the lost one growled. "Isn't that who it usually is anyway." He said more quietly. "You know all those princes kidnapping and falling for, Akane."

Ranma considered this, and nodded with a sigh. "Yes I suppose it is. However that isn't who the Doc's interested in." He regarded the older man with a careful sidelong glance. "I can't say who it is, but it isn't Akane."

Doctor Tofu waved off Ranma's concerns with his hands. "Don't worry, Ranma, I can say her name. It's K….K…" he paused, and began inhaling deeply through his nose and releasing the air from his mouth, hands clenching and unclenching against his knees. Ranma thought he could feel a trickle of power from the man, and his glasses were now completely fogged. "K…Kasumi."

"Kasumi Tendo?" Ryoga asked with a blink. "Akane's sister?"

Tofu nodded, hands trembling. 

"Anyway," Ranma cried, distracting the doctor from his romantic ideas of the gentle sister. "You never said why these guys sent you here."

"Oh right," Tofu said as if snapping out of a trance. "Master Locke wanted me to talk to you, and establish who you are and whether or not you are some sort of threat." His face was near split by his grin. "But I can see that you're not, so I can tell them it was all a misunderstanding and we can avoid more trouble."

"With this jerk I doubt it," Ryoga murmured, jerking his thumb at Ranma.

Ranma ignored the lost boy, "I still need to find her, and apologise."

Doctor Tofu nodded, "That's nice of you Ranma and should help smooth this over. I'll see if I can arrange it." He trailed off, shedding his glasses he cleaned the lenses with a kerchief pulled from his pocket and glanced up at the sky.

The sun had fallen behind a wall of clouds, darkening the sky. The only sounds in the air was the burble of the stream the rippled crashed through the rocks, and the soft whisper of the winds as it shook the bare boughs of the trees, their reflections repeating the same dance in the glassy surface of the pool.

"Ranma?" the Doctor said softly, and replaced his glasses over his eyes, turning to the youth, his smile gone and yearning in his eyes.

"Yes, Doc?"

"Tell me about Nerima," the older man swallowed stiffly. "Tell me about Kasumi."

Ranma smiled. "What would you like to know?"

***

Sasuke felt his body jerk as he slammed into the wall, and slid slowly along the surface to the floor like a thick stain. His body folded on the carpet, his knees pressed against and head lolled. Something welled in his lungs and his head jerked as he coughed harshly. He felt the thick clot of blood flying from his mouth on to his stomach, and a thing red trail dripped down his chin. Pain screamed in his chest and his senses swam, lights continuing to flash in front of his eyes.

The icy grip of fear seized his heart as for the first time he looked on his mistress with abject terror. His body began shaking so hard it felt like he was having a fit and he jerked in petrified convulsions, as he watched Kodachi's lips move. They were red, blood red, and slowly twisted from a furious snarl to a wide and manic grin. Kodachi's room was always dark but now the shadows waxed, growing ever blacker. With a shudder he released the darkness was coming from her, her aura swarming with a blackness darker than the night making her pale skin shine with such brilliant whiteness that it no longer looked like living flesh, put as ashen as a death shroud. Her ribbon twisted and coiled around her as if alive, a serpent that writhed, pulsated and lashed, its razor edge tearing through the chairs and tables like fangs. 

She tossed back her head, dark locks lost in the shadows that massed around her like a litter of spawn to their mother, and she released that long, demented laugh. Each long peal resounded like the tolling of the dead's bell and reduced Sasuke to tears, racking him with chocking sobs. All he could think was one single thought that he clung to desperately.

_Don't shoot the messenger._

To be continued. 

AN- Uh…sorry there's a lot of theory to this chapter, but I need to set the basis for various plots later both involving the Order and the use of Ki in general. It's all based on the real ideas behind Ki in Chinese martial arts and Bagua (of which my understanding is not perfect and has been embellished). However I did add the science bit because I thought it would make things more understandable, and be a bit more original since in most fics Ki energy is always at odds with science so I wanted to bring them hand in hand. I hope you found it interesting and if not I'm sorry and let me know how to improve ^__^.

            Also hope I answered peoples concerns about Ranma and fighting girls. The series makes it clear he is reluctant to fight girls, but he will if he has to. Also his words "a guy holds back a lot when he fights a girl" shows that if he does have to fight he will try and do it without hurting. If you have anything to say, about my depiction of this or of Shampoo in this chapter, leave your e-mail or send me one, the same with all other constructive comments or criticism. Cheers

Glossary 

**Hara: **'Belly,' the point in the abdomen two inches below the navel and the human bodies centre of gravity. It is also the point in Japanese belief where internal energy and Ki is found and stored so it can be harnessed. In Chinese it is called the **Lower Dan Tien**.

**Greater Cycle: **In Taoist belief it is the flow of Ki from pure energy in the heavens to the earth and back, shifting to manifest as the eight phases of nature.

**Lesser Cycle: **The flow of Ki from the centre of the mind to the hara in the human body, which nourishes the organs and channels the energy through the body.

**Tao: ** The perfect and divine natural forces which balances the universe in harmony. Taoist religion is based on reaching enlightenment by becoming one with the Tao.

Uh think that's it. Thanks to Rob for his great help, Larry for hosting and you for reading.

  e H  

                            


	4. The Mists of the Mind

Honour And Pride 

By Beer-Monster

Book II: The Eight Phases

**Chapter Four**

**The Mists of the Mind**

_Though this be madness, yet there is method in it_

William Shakespeare  
Hamlet: Act II Scene II  
Polonius

Sirens screamed into the night, howling like mad dogs at the moon that was reduced to a white disk in the sky, its silvery glow stolen by the orange canopy of the city lights. Music still pumped within the empty nightclub like a frantic pulse. Outside a throng of people gasped and murmured. Women clung to men and hid their eyes, burying frightened faces in the chests of their boyfriends, who whispered soothing words. Others, more curious, inched closer, trying and peer into the shadows but the surrounding ring of police forced them back roughly before they could glimpse more than a mangled hand, barely visible in the gloom.

As Shigurei Toshiyama stepped out of the car one of the uniformed men glanced his way and then began barking orders at the crowd, who dutifully parted to allow him through. As he strode past he tried to ignore the people watching him avidly from all sides, their whispers and mutterings growing as they eyed the heavy metal box hanging from the handle gripped in his fist. He shut the noise out with practised ease; there would be time for the living later. First he had to speak to the dead.

The body was a large-man shaped shadow, barely visible in the darkness. It lay crumpled on it's back by the far wall, legs folded at awkwards angles beneath the torso and one arm flacidly stretched towards the light at the mouth of the alley.

"Can we get some more light in here?" Shigurei said over his shoulder at a nearby cop, and resumed squinting in the darkness of the alley, the tight buildings of Tokyo shadowing the narrow passage from the streetlights.

"They're getting more flashlights," said a voice came from the alley. A woman came from the shadows, the echoes of her short heels following her. She hefted the flashlight in her hands, the bright beam glaring across the small octagonal lenses of her spectacles. The light that flooded across one side of her face paled her blonde hair into almost ghostly whiteness. Her red lips formed a small smirk, before the light vanished with an audible click and the torch returned to her side. "Didn't you bring yours?"

Shigurei rolled his eyes as he set his case down. "A good night to you too, Mizuki," he muttered. The top of steel box unfolded into four trays, racked with vials, pipettes and swabs. "A murder then?" he pulled his flashlight from the box's bottom, running his thumb up the ridges of the grip.

"Why are you asking me?" she said with a shrug.

Turning the torch on he lifted the beam to illuminate the writing across the material of her blue jacket, the word rippled by the swell of her breast. CORONER glittered in fluorescent letters across the dark fabric. "That's your job isn't it?"

Mizuki pouted, the gesture seeming out of place from a mature and sultry beauty. "You're no fun, Shigurei." She turned back into the alley, her eyes hooded and the shadows of the torchlight danced across her face. "There's precious little fun in this job as there is," she said softly.

She cleared her throat loudly, switching her torch back on, and began walking swiftly ahead. He followed swiftly, the beam from his flashlight melding with hers and cutting through the darkness.

"Victims name is Tetsuo Matsuhara, one of the uniforms told me he was also known around here as 'Tetsuo the Tank'. Bouncer at the club, his boss IDed the body, even so I did find a wallet on him." She held out a bag of clear plastic that swayed in her fist from the weight of its contents: a wallet of plain and wrinkled black leather and a set of keys. Shigurei eased his hands into his white latex gloves and took the bag from her, fishing out the wallet and inspecting it. There in a transparent pouch was a driver licence; a picture of the dead man appeared smiling next to his name despite the scar that ran across his brow from his dark parted hair.

"It wasn't a mugging," he murmured aloud, running his gloved thumb over a wad of bills before returning the wallet to the bag.

"I doubt anyone would dare to mug him," a gruff voice said from beside him bringing the scent of smoke. The man pulled a hand from his jacket to run his fingers through his thick but greying black hair, and frowned. Lines creased at the corners of his eyes as he inhaled from the cigarette clamped in his yellowed teeth, the tip glowing orange in the gloom.

"Tetsuo the tank, legendary in most of greater Tokyo as the toughest doorman in the capital. Was building up quite a name for himself in the world of Pancrasse until he was banned for excess brutality, so he earned his money and his name brawling in bars and clubs to keep the riff raff out." He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and blew a ring of smoke into the night air. "Doctor Egawa, Mister Toshiyama," he greeted each of them with a nod.

"Detective Izumi," Shigurei returned and then frowned, "Haven't I already asked you not to smoke smoke at a crime scene, you may contiminate the evidence."

The cop shrugged with a wry smirk, "If I dropped the butt now, it definitely would"

Shigurei sighed,"Just watch the ash," he muttered and then turned back to Mizuki. "Cause of death?" He swung his torch round to illuminate the corpse. The man's cheek was rippled with purple, his eye swollen shut. Both lips were split wrecks that were smeared with blood and several teeth were broken. "Beaten?" he guessed.

The coroner nodded. "Looks like it. His skull has caved in two places, from blunt force trauma, one by the right eye over the area of the temple," she pointed at the warped and discoloured cheek, "and a much larger impact at the base and back of the skull. I won't know which killed him until the autopsy, or what kind of weapon it was."

"Probably the yakuza," Izumi grunted. "'The tank' here had quite a bad reputation with most of the local gangs, having been known to have kicked seven shades of shit out of many of their members." He shook his head at the corpse; smoke streaming from his nostrils as he sighed. "They have been rumoured to have tried to kill him several times before, with them coming out worse for each attempt. Guess they finally got him, must have taken a whole lot of guys though."

"Whoever they were, they were brutal," Mizuki said, lifting the victim's hand, which hung limply and at an unnatural angle from his wrist, the splintered ends of several bones protruding from a bloody tear in the back of the hand. "From what I can tell from a quick glance his right ulna has been snapped at the elbow. His shoulder and left knee have been dislocated and I think he has broken ribs on both sides."

Shigurei swallowed hard, biting at his lip while Izumi's jaw hardened, teeth grinding the butt of his cigarette.

"That's not the worst part," Mizuki said as she reached down and tugged aside the flap of the victims black jacket revealing a dark blue shirt, the entire abdomen stained with the dark crimson of blood. She pried apart a tear in the garment to reveal a large wound. It was deep and defined like a stab wound, the skin around it still wet with blood. However, its shape was a large irregular slot, long with a tapering narrowness of notched and rounded edges."

"It almost looks like he was stabbed with the edge of a spade, but the hole is too misshapen," he said with knit brows.

Mizuki nodded. "I've never seen a puncture wound like that, not even in the textbooks."

The sound of a new siren echoed in the night, accompanied by flashes of blue light. He turned to see the ambulance pull up, the uniformed police pushing people to the sides as two men heaved a gurney from its back and began rolling it towards him.

"That's my ride," she sighed, before resting a hand on his shoulder. "I'll give you the results of the autopsy as soon as I have them." Shigurei nodded and stepped away from the body, allowing two men in green overalls to load the corpse on to wagon. Instead he scanned the alleyway, flicking his flashlight over the features of the crime scene.

"Definite signs of a struggle," he mused as the light illuminated a bunch of trashcans toppled onto their sides, the metal folded and the contents spilt on the floor and squashed. "But not as much as you'd think if so many people had jumped him. Don't suppose anyone saw anything?" he asked of the detective.

Izumi shook his head with a snort. "Everyone was either in the club or queuing around the other side, out of sight from this alley. There were no passers by who may have seen anything, according to those I interviewed. One of the other doormen had said that Tetsuo had come down here to investigate a ruckus. They kept an eye on the door and the lines."

"And they didn't come running at the sounds of a fight or any screams?" Shigurei inquired in a bitter tone.

The policeman shrugged. "They said they heard screams but they didn't know they were Tetsuo's, they never heard them before. As for a fight, they claimed that sort of stuff was normal, especially for 'the Tank."'

Shigurei said nothing, but wandered up to a dumpster that was lent upon broken wheels against the wall of the club. Its front was smashed and dented, the metal of its handle twisted with a concave bend. Blood welled in the dent and was smeared across the side, a smudged, red handprint wrapped vivid against the yellow plastic. The blood still dripped wetly in thin rivulet, puddling on the pavement below.

"I would say he had been forced against this dumpster when he was stabbed with whatever it was that caused that wound," he said rubbing at his chin with one hand while he walked to where he had left his kit box and retrieved a bulbous squirt bottle. "That mean's we may be able to read what happened in the blood."

Squeezing the trigger of the bottle he released a fine mist of liquid that floated gently to the ground. The moisture of the blood that was only visible by the glistening of his torchlight now appeared as a pool of liquid light, glowing blue-green in the shadows of the alley. He sprayed again, this time revealing more luminescent stains, and a footprint, the treads imprinted in sticky blood.

"I think this is Mister Tank's print. The heaviness of the mark suggests he already had his leg broken." He walk towards the body slowly, carefully advancing on the tips of his toes step by step as he surrounded himself with sprays from the bottle. Carefully watching for the past that was told in the patterns of blood. It was a waste of luminol but it was the only way to determine anything in the gloom. He soon made his way down the twelve paces back to Izumi. His head swivelled as he frowned at the radiant stains in the passage and then back at the wall in front of which the body had laid.

"Curious," he murmured leaning closer towards the splattered marks that were plainly visible against the brickwork.

"Damn it Toshiyama," Izumi cursed, punctuating his words with a blast of exhaled smoke. "You know I hate it when you do that, spill what ever your egghead has worked out."

"Well, Detective," Shigurei let the word roll dryly as he rolled his eyes. "Don't you think it odd how our victim can get from that spot there," he gestured to a smear of fading blue light by the dumpster's corner, "all the way across here to this wall, without leaking copious amounts of blood. And also he somehow left quite a spray of his body fluids over this wall."

Pointing his flashlight ahead of his tentative touch, he reached out with a probing hand to press against the wall.The bricks wobbled then cracked the wall collapsing with a crumbling of stone and a cloud of fine dust. The cigarette dropped from Izumi's jaw, which hung open numbly. Shigurei raked a hand through his grey-streaked brown hair as he once again regarded the chalk outline that represented Tesuo Matsuhara's smashed corpse.

"If it wasn't impossible, I would say that this man had been thrown clean across this alley," he whispered, feeling the tingle of a puzzle beginning to tug at his mind.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The cracked white walls shook. The stamping feet and frenzied roars of the crowds resonated down the wall and vibrated along the metal of the lockers. Bright sunlight flooded in through the slits of the blinds, painting stripes of shadow and light across the walls. The room sweltered in the heat, the bulky air conditioner emitting nothing but a strained and ragged hum, which joined with the muted buzz from the insects that flew in a swarm about the ceiling.

Ryu flexed his fingers to make sure the bindings were secure, clenching and unclenching his fist. With a satisfied nod he grabbed a fresh roll of linen from the bench beside him, and began on the other hand, wrapping the bandage slowly across his palms and knuckles, taking care not to bind his fingers together. The materials seemed unnatural as they covered his palms; they were wrong in some way, a weak substitute for the hardened leather fighting gloves he had worn for years.

Master Vut entered without knocking, scrubbing a hand through his shortly cropped white hair with one hand and tugging at the knot of his tie with the other hand. A grimace twisted his tanned face as he fussed with his white shirt collar, muttering as his attentions creased the short sleeves. Brushing his callused hands down the sharp creases of his blue trousers, he squatted on his haunches before Ryu, then he lifted the boy's hands in turn, examining the bindings with a critical squint. With a gruff nod he let both arms drop, but remained in his crouch as he raised his dark eyes to meet Ryu's gaze.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked.

"He is the best, isn't he?"

Vut's scowl deepened, "He's the champion," he grunted simply.

"Then I want to do this," Ryu replied flatly.

The old Thai master shrugged and grabbed the gloves from beneath the bench, presenting them to Ryu who sighed sharply through his nostrils and held his hands out, allowing Vut to slip the padded mitts over his fists. The cushioning wrapped his knuckles snugly and comfortably, his lips twisted in distaste. _Such a waste_, he thought.

As Vut yanked the yellowed laces taught and tied them off, the Japanese boy turned his hands and glared at his fists, trying to see the hardened calluses of his knuckles and the bony swellings on his fingers through the faded black leather. The calluses he had worked so hard to gain, he could almost still feel the pain of their forging. Ever since he had first opened the scroll his father had given him with his last breath, he had worked to turn his fists into hammers and his fingers into weapons. He has slammed his fists into the trunks of mighty trees and pulverised great boulders until the bruises and blood had given way to hardened flesh. He had jabbed fingers into the slats of fences, through the cracks of bricks until his nails were cracked and cut but the force of his Dokuja Tenketsu Sho could punch through a man's ribcage. After so much blood and pain spent in developing his tools, it seemed almost heresy to cover them in padding so as not to injure his opponent.

He shook his head with a jerk to dismiss such thoughts and clenched his gloved fists, testing the mitts flexibility. He had no right to complain for he had made the challenge, fighting and defeating the champion's five greatest rivals in public with contemptuous ease. After each victory he had called out his challenge, until pride and national honour forced the man to accept, unable to disgrace his country by submitting to a foreign warrior. However, as the defender, he had exercised his right to dictate the challenges of the duel, choosing an official Muay Thai bout. So Ryu had bound and padded his weapons as the rules decreed and had doffed his camouflaged fatigues for the loaned pair of black satin shorts impressed with a white flow of script.

He still wore his white headband across his brow, holding his dark curls from his face, a reminder of who he was and of his purpose.

"It's time," Vut said, Ryu nodded and rose throwing a few test hooks with his gloved hands before following the master out of the door. The shouting of the crowd built up as he walked down the narrow corridor like the rising of the tides before a squall. Their voices washed over him like the waves as he approached each cry higher and louder than the last as if he were walking into a stormy sea of sound. The noise rose to an apex as he emerged into the arena, the audience roaring like the first clap of thunder. The cameras flashed to capture his approach to the ring as jeers and taunts came from the Thai spectators voicing their resentment of the foreigner, all but drowning the sound of the band playing their ancient battle tunes.

He ignored them, concentrating on the heated swell of anticipation that rose in his chest, the banging of the musicians drums setting an excited tempo for the beating of his heart. He ducked between the stretchy ropes and entered the ring, nodding to Vut who returned the gesture from besides the post. Ryu strode to the centre of the ring and bowed smartly to the judges and the crowd

The three men frowned, Ryu's bow had been of the Japanese style not the Thai, but he barely repressed a smirk, _let them frown, I will not pretend to be what I'm not. _

The voices of the audience fell to a hush before rising into a frenzy of cheers. The piper began playing a fast-paced heroic song as the Champion approached the ring. Ryu glanced up to see his opponent approach, his dark Mohawk swaying as the man twisted his head and lifted his fists to acknowledge the crowd's adulation, the waves of people suddenly alive with colourful banners and sashes. The champion known as 'Tan the Tiger' vaulted over the ropes into the stages and smiled at Ryu. His bright red silk of his trunks shimmered in the light as he moved, throwing a few test jabs at the Japanese youth. Ryu stared back, without expression.

The song of the band grew faster, the Java pipes whining a fast and exultant tune. Tan dropped to his knees and began the Wai Kru, the white tassels of his mongkol headband swinging like the tail of an eager racehorse as he moved through the ritual dance. Ryu reached up and pulled his own bandana tight, an act that was more a gesture of reassurance than of any effect since his hands were clumsy in their mitts. His headband was not woven or rolled with spells of fortune and words of power, but it had served him well.

Tan weaved on his knees and bobbed with the trashing cymbols ,his arms made wide circles as he bowed, dancing his devotion to his school, teacher and art but Ryu just watched the other man carefully from his corner, noticing with interest the Thai warrior's lithe figure. His sleek muscles bunched like corded steel beneath golden skin, the deceptively slender physique obviously full of great strength.

Ryu's fist clenched and he felt the much larger bulge of his own biceps, wondering if size really did make a difference. He continued to regard the man through narrowed eyes, the hairs on his arms standing on end as he felt Tan's battle aura begin to rise. He stood and tossed aside the mongkol, and stood waiting, Ryu joined him and met his glare, barely hearing the referee's mutterings.

With a nod from the panel and the peal of the bell, the fight began. Ryu circled his opponent and matching his stance, loose fists held high as he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. The music continued, playing the music of their combat waltz.

Tan whipped his leg round at Ryu's thigh.

Ryu let the blow contact knowing it was just a probe of his defence.

The champion shuffled to the side before launching another kick with the opposite foot, this time spinning in with full power at Ryu's neck.

Bringing his fist behind his ear Ryu covered, Tan's shin slamming into his arm with a wet slap. As his opponent's foot came down from the attack Ryu pushed forwards striking both of the Thai boxer's cheeks with a left-right combination.

The older man staggered back a step, before shaking his head slightly and resuming his wary circle of the young foreigner.

Ryu matched his movement, following him round for a few slow steps before suddenly shifting, stepping to the other side before closing in with a thrusting kick.

Tan barely dodged but saw Ryu's following punch and brought his arm up so the fist slammed against his forearms.

Ryu did not stop but jerked his hips around, putting his force behind his lead arm as it hooked around the kick boxer's guard and crashed into his jaw.

Tan stumbled with the blow but kept to his feet, setting his stance with a snarl as the flesh of his face turned purple. Ryu kept his face stolid and waited for the next attack.

He did not have to wait long, the Thai champion charged forwards, Ryu tensed but was caught off guard as Tan launched himself like cannonball, knee lashing into face.

Ryu reeled back with the blow and bounced against the ropes, tasting the copper tang of blood in his mouth. The crowd roared in triumph at the shot and he could not blame them; that had been a good hit and hurt like hell. Mentally filing the attack away in his mind, inspiration already fruiting, he pushed off the ropes and raised his guard, allowing himself a smirk at his opponent. He would find Ryu was made of tougher stuff than that.

Tan's scowl deepened but this time he approached slowly, shuffling closer with his feet skimming upon the ring's surface.

Ryu stepped up to meet him, each step bringing him closer within range. They crossed the invisible line and stopped, each having their narrowed eyes locked on the other. The crowd waved their arms and screamed for action, to Ryu it was like the buzzing of distant, insignificant flies almost lost in the pounding of his pulse.

He saw the subtle shift in balance and watched Tan spin his body into a roundhouse kick, his club-like shin ready to smash Ryu's ribs.

Ryu saw and matched the technique like a mirror launching his own right kick as his opponent's leg came arching in from the left. The strikes smashed into their targets in the same moment and there forces nullified.

Almost.

With strength built in a life of training in a violent secret art, Ryu's kick slammed harder, his extra power enough to knock the champion off balance and send him tottering to the side, eyes squinted as his face screwed from the sting of bone on flesh.

Ryu seized the advantage, closing the gap and swung his lead elbow up to his opponents chin, being rewarded with a small spray of blood from Tan's mouth. His torso whipped around viciously to cut his rear elbow across the Thai boxer's face.

Tan reeled back but Ryu kept flowing into the next move, bringing his shoulder up to drive an uppercut at the already abused chin for the knockout. His eyes widened as he felt his fist stop cold, and his respect for Tan the Tiger rose as he saw that the older fighter had managed to bring his forearms down to form a shield, blocking the rising punch hard, despite the effects of Ryu's elbow combination.

Tan jumped on Ryu's moment of surprise, shooting across the small distance and bringing both arms around. His forearms clamped around the Japanese boy's neck like pincers, digging into his throat as his fists hooked behind his head and locked him tight.

Ryu was jerked forwards, straight into the champion's rising knee.

He gasped as his air left his lungs and felt his opponents grip tighten, clinching the two fighters together tightly. His ears were filled with the frantic and struggled sounds of his own breath, and the frenzied pants and grunts of Tan as the knees continued to come in a barrage of strikes.

Ryu grit his teeth, lungs aching as he tried to control his breath to clench his gut, toughening himself against the incoming knees. Pain lanced in his collarbones as Tan's forearms squeezed the grip. He folded his arms into a cross over his stomach, allowing the strikes to pound into his gloves and elbows. After a moment his lungs began pumping air and the pain lessened. The force of the blows suddenly seemed less, though he did wince slightly as the Thai fighter occasionally swung his knee in an arc to thump his kidneys. Ryu felt a tiny smirk for on his lips, this was a good tactic, but he was too strong for this so-called champion.

He let his energy focus within his abdomen, before pumping it into his arms. Bending his arms at the elbow, Ryu pressed his hands together and closed as he could manage with the bulky mitts. He dropped his weight for a second, taking a fast half-step back to break his opponents balance, and surged upwards with all his might. He brought his hands up punching them hard between Tan's tightly squeezed elbows, and then swung them wide apart, tearing away the champions grip. Arms flung apart; the Thai boxer was wide open.

SANMON ZENKAI HA

Ryu's two hands returned to his hips before they shot out like twin pistons, both fists blasting into Tan's chest and sending him rocketing across the rings. He struck the ropes and was launched back like a slingshot, straight into Ryu's fist. Tan fell to the floor, his eyes rolling back in his head and it thudded upon the ring. Doctors rushed into the ring, slapping the fallen champion gently and waving small vials beneath his nose. The man stirred slowly with a barely audible groan.

The judges glowered at him but Ryu ignored it, standing away from his downed opponent, and waited for them to declare his victory. He had beaten the best that Thailand had to offer, as he had through Burma, Malaysia and the Philippines. Another notch in the banner of the Kumon family. Another step in his quest. He turned to Master Vut, who smiled back, though his eyes were still wide with wonder. He bowed towards the old man, and allowed himself a small smile. It was time to move on.

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Murky brown water fell in drips and streams that spluttered loudly against the bottom of the plastic basin as Konatsu rinsed the cloth in his hands. He folded the damp, ragged fabric in half down the middle and proceeded to twist it tightly in his grip, releasing another deluge of dirty water. He dipped the cloth into another bowl of clean, lemon scented water and scrubbing at the surface of Ukyo's hot plate.

He noticed himself humming as he worked, rubbing harder at the grill to remove any streaks that would mar the shining metal.The tune was familiar and yet foreign. It was the same song that would always murmur as he worked he knew the melody well; but he did not know what it meant, what the words were, if it even had words. He was simply taught the melody as a child, and was told that it was a cute tune for a girl to hum, so he did.

Spotting a blackened splot of burnt batter sticking to the back of the grill, he scoured the stain with his cloth but the stubborn mark refused to move, still clinging to the metal surface. Konatsu puted and leaned across the grill and scratched the stain away with one of his long, red-painted nails.

Just as the finals scraps of charred food crumbled away, he realised what he was doing.

_Bad Konatsu_, a voice hissed in his mind.

He examined his nail and sighed, now he would have to touch up the varnish. His jaw tightened but he caught himself, venting his frustration with a small pout. Running his tongue over his front teeth he tasted the waxy sheen smudged across them and knew he would also have to reapply his lip stick. He tossed the cloth aside and reached inside the fold of his kimono for his make-up compact, when he noticed the an odd smudge on the wall. Supressing the urge to roll his eyes, he leant over the grill to grab an errant chopstick.

And tossed it like a dart at the opposite wall, which squawked as the utensil stuck hard and fell over one of the booths.

Drying his hands on a nearby oven towel he walked calmly around the counter, the wooden heels of his geta clacking against the polished floors.

"Tsubasa" he growled, then snapped his mouth shut as the harshness of his own voice echoed in his ears. He sucked a deep breath in through his nose. _Always cute, always polite, always a lady, _the mantra sprang into his head and he let it fill his mind. With measured slowness he released the breathe slowly through his mouth, and continued over to the slumped form.

"Mr Tsubasa, I'm afraid Miss Ukyo has made it clear many times that she has no romantic intentions towards you." _Or me_ a voice added but he ignored it. "I'm also sorry to remind you that she has asked you to never visit here, and I regret that I must enforce her wishes." He did not know why, but he had a sudden desire to crack his knuckles, but quashed the urge as he knew that ladies did not do such a thing. It would ruin his hands.

The former wall rolled over on the table top, revealing a pudgy man with a rodent-like face. His thick eyebrows hung over black, beady eyes one of which was swollen shut and ringed with purple bruises. His lips were pulled back in a grimace of pain, revealing bucked teeth one of which seemed recently chipped.

"I'm sorry ,sir," Konatsu gasped, bobbing a quick bow. "I thought you were someone else, please accept my apology."

Konatsu ran his eyes over the man's clothes, a snug fitting dogi that was bound with arm pas across the forearms and the trouser cuffs were tugged into soft, pliable tabi boots. Beneath the folds of the suit was a thin shirt of meshed material that protruded from his sleeves to wrap over the backs of his hands.The rear half of his garb was coloured white, presumably to allow him to blend in with the rest of the restaurants walls. Konatsu repressed a snort, that was such a basic and ultimately useless trick utilised only by 'wannabe' shinobi.

"Forgive me for saying so, sir, but you don't appear to be very skilled at ninjitsu. Supressing your breathing so as to pass unnoticed is a very basic technique that should be mastered before any attempt at spying." He watched the diminutive ninja, ready to read his reaction. The man simply coughed and a pained hiss emerged from his grit teeth. "If you would like my advice, sir, I would also recommend that you not play ninja in your obviously wounded condition."

The figure coughed again and rolled over onto his front, forcing himself onto his hands and knees. Konatsu could see theninja's swollen lips move slowly and craned his neck to hear.

"Must….mission…can't fail…mistress will…" the man's small frame convulsed suddenly, his shoulders shook as if his bones had become ice.

_Mission? _Konatsu thought, lips tightening into a small frown. _Miss Ukyo!_

Reaching into the binds of his ornate yellow obi, he withdrew a long and slender kunai. Light blossomed on its point as he rose it up to his eyes, testing with a gentle press of his thumb.

"I'm sorry, sir, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you about your mission." He twirled the weapon across the back of his hand, using the ring of the handle to spin it back into his fist. "I'm also afraid that I will have to be quite insistent that you answer."

Konatsu smiled apologetically.

The wind rushed down the empty street, rattling the steel of the fence and whistling through its links. Plastics bags and candy wrappers spiralled through the air and skimmed across the ground in the grip of the winds. Akane stopped and squinted as dust whipped past her. She pressed her book bag against her thighs, clamping down the fabric of her dress as it billowed around her. The winds calmed and she resumed walking, lifting a hand to tuck a stray lock of midnight hair behind her ear.

She grimaced as a stiff pain tugged at the muscles around her spine and hunched her shoulder, feeling the shift of the heavy weight contained within Ranma's old school bag. Genma Saotome had presented it to her yesterday and ordered her to wear it to, from and during school.

At first she had scoffed; it was a mere eighty kilos. She had always been proud of her strength, and though she was not as fast or as skilled as Ranma even he said she was strong. She frowned as she remembered that he had always disguised that compliment as an insult, calling her a brute strength tomboy. Nevertheless; she was strong, maybe not as strong as Ryoga or Shampoo but she had some force behind her. Thus, when Genma had asked her to carry the weights she had been surprised; she knew that her punches had more power than his. The master of the Saotome style simply snorted, saying that a little extra strength could make a great difference. She had begun to protest but her new sensei overrode her, raising an eyebrow from behind his glasses and saying.

_"If you are too weak, just say so, girl."_

The last word had been a sneer, voiced like an insult. Her nails had bit into her hand as she glowered at him, jaw locked and trembling wanting to say something in her defence but knowing there was nothing to say. All she did, all she could do was sling the bag over her shoulders and march out of the house, determined to show Genma Saotome that girls were just as strong, that she was just as strong. And one day she would show his arrogant son too.

It was during second period that she began to realise that she had grossly underestimated Genma Saotome. She sat at her desk, the pack's weight beginning to pull at her shoulders and back, sending growing twinges of pain through her muscles which assaulted her brain while she was trying furiously to concentrate on Miss Hinako's childish antics. As the aches became more frequent and she could hear her breath grow harsh, she knew that her sensei had not intended this an exercise of strength, but of stamina. Sure, she could lift massive objects and smash bricks, but for how long?

Thinking of Ryoga's umbrella, the heavy club that she had strained to lift that day at school and how he carried it with him constantly bearing its weight so easily and naturally he could swung it with one hand as if it were a part of his arm, Akane began to realise that every martial artist she knew took such endurance for granted, trained it to the point it no longer mattered. Shampoo carried those massive maces with grace and poise, Mousse carried an infinite arsenal of weapons yet never felt their weight; and Ranma…

Akane drew breath and her mouth worked but caught between sighing and crying, growling and yelling, no sound came out. Thoughts of Ranma made her rise with anger or occasionally joy, yet also made her heart sink with the pangs of his absence. Her feelings were like a floating buoy, bobbing up and down on ontinuously shifting tides of emotions that she was rapidly becoming accustomed to. It seemed like everything brought her back to him.

She had always known that her life in Nerima had woven itself around him like the pattern of a tapestry; yet now every aspect of her life reminded her of him. Training under her new sensei forced her mind to consider his first student, and as she punched the striking post she could almost hear his voice mocking her skills. There was a void at meal times in the Tendo house, and though her family and her still spoke and chatted as they passes the rice, it was strangely quiet, though Ranma had rarely spoke at the dinner table as he stuffed his face.

In school there were hushed whispers between the students behind her back that transformed into nervous smiles when she turned around. Kuno boasted about his victory over the 'vile sorcerer' and sang embellished poems chronicling his triumph. Punting him viciously had not ended his tirade yet thankfully it may have convinced the foolish perverts amongst her classmates not to revive the morning charge, though she suspected her sister's hand in that decision. The worst part of school now had become facing Ukyo.

Akane had not seen the chef smile in weeks, the girl spoke the same friendly words in the same friendly tones and acted congenially to any who spoke to her, but her face was empty and pale, with dark rings beginning to form beneath her eyes. Looking at Ukyo made a black feeling creep into her chest, and Akane now scrutinised her reflection every morning, searching for any sign of the same pallid despair.

_That jerk should rot for doing this to m...her!_ Akane thought, gritting her teeth her hands clenching around the handle of her book bag. She seized the anger like a security blanket and embraced it tightly, letting it sink it and drew breath to release her fury in a wild scream that cursed the young Saotome for eternity.

The breath was sealed in her lungs with a clang as something slammed against her back, a metallic ring chiming in the air as the object struck the weight she bore. The projectile's impact rippled through her, sending painful vibrations pulsing along her rib cage. She spluttered as the impact pounded against her organs, knocking her to the ground. Her palms stung as she landed in a sprawl the flesh skinned from her hands. She hissed as her teeth bit onto her lip and she tasted the coppery tang of blood in her mouth.

She growled as she gathered her hands beneath her and pushed herself up, coughing as she tried to force air through her bruised chest. Her eyes shot open wide as she felt something wrap around her leg, clenching tightly around her ankle. She felt herself jerk as she was heaved from the pavement and flung aside, her body slamming into the links of the wire fence with a rattling crash before dropping back to the hard ground. She landed harshly on her hands and knees and her bones jarred making her wince.

A whip like rushing snapped by her ears and she saw a blur of pink from the corner of her eyes. She barely had chance to gawk at the rose-coloured fabric that had wound around her forearm before she was again yanked into the air, flipped into a high arc and being smashed into the ground once again. Lights flashed in a coruscating spark before her eyes as her shoulder pounded into the concrete; she cried out weakly saliva spraying from her mouth.

She writhed on the floor, as pain seemed to sink in to every bone, spots and motes swam in hazy blurs across her vision. She tried to blink them away but was assaulted by another explosion of agony as a twist of the whip wrenched her shoulder in its socket and dragged her slumped body across the concrete. Her eyes squeezed shut and she hissed through gritted teeth as the flesh of her thigh was scraped raw across the ridges between the paving slabs. Each pull seemed to last hours, her dress riding around her legs to expose more skin to the burning friction. When she stopped her body ached and she slowly let her eyes open, but soon they flew open with terror.

Kodachi Kuno loomed over her, filling her vision like a giant, garbed in a leotard of stormy grey with face of white lightening. Her lips were painted a deep red, the colour of blood a grim part of Akane's mind noted; they were twisted into a wild snarl of wordless rage. Kodachi's eyes were onyx black, lacking any glimmer or light. Like empty voids they seemed to draw Akane in like a malevolent vortex. Akane could feel tendrils of ice close around her heart as her gaze was locked to those eyes, which seemed like windows into a realm of eternal night.

Those crimson lips contorted into a dark smile, revealing a row of inhumanly white teeth. Akane's eye widened as she watched transfixed as the gymnast's pale, slender arm rose with a smooth grace like a dance. The whiteness of her skin stood stark against the grey sky as her hand reached an apex, as did the colour of the baton clasped in her fist, the meagre light of the clouded sun forming tiny stars of light on the steel points of its bladed spikes.

Kodachi's smile grew wider, those pearly teeth almost appearing like fangs against the blood red of her lips, her eyes were wild with frenzy that froze Akane in place.

The club began its violent descent.

_Move girl, _a gruff voice barked, an echo of the order she hard heard many times before.

Jerking her muscles into action she forced her self to roll to the side, ducking her head to her chest to avoid the weapon that would certainly crush her skull. She felt the fierce tremor as the club ploughed into the pavement where her head had been an instant before, flakes and shards of shattered concrete bouncing off the back of her skull and her shoulders.

Akane dared to open the eyes that she had squeezed shut painfully tight from instinctive desire not to see the end as it came. From the corner of her adrenaline dazed vision she noticed a blur of white, and with a low growl of defiance lashed out at it. Her fist slammed down onto Kodachi's slipper-clad foot, with a crunch.

The gymnast howled and leapt back with her other leg, the spiked gymnastics mace clattering to the floor as she retreated clutching her foot in her hands. Akane rolled over on her side gaining distance before slowly pushing herself to her knees, beaten, scraped muscles wracking her body with pulses of pain to accompany each movement.

"What the hell is this, Kodachi?" she roared despite the burning in her battered lungs. She could feel her knees tremble and quiver as she tried to push herself to her feet. Her jaw bunched as she forced aside the wince summoned by the aching of her limbs.

The Black Rose's face contorted with rage.

"I shall not bandy words with you, witch," she spat a thread of spittle flying from her mouth. "Remain silent, so as not to taint the air with the deceit of your last words."

Kodachi bolted forwards, the blow to her foot seemingly forgotten as she moved with fluid elegance, those dull eyes open wide and her lips curved into a frenzied smile.

Akane braced herself, trying to summon strength into arms that felt like lead. She let her fingers ball into fists, ready to counter whatever the other girl had to throw at her.

The gymnast threw herself upwards, rising into the air as if on wings and disappearing from sight.

Akane cursed and tried to spin around, but a blur of pink dropped past her eyes and her throat was wrapped in a vice like grip, causing her to belch gutturally as the ribbon closed on her neck.

Her arms floundered, waving about with as much strength as she could muster, trying to arc behind her. Akane flailed her arms to her sides and over her head, trying to strike her crazed attacker

She nothing, and could hear Kodachi's throaty chuckle at her efforts. Her attempt grew weaker as the power seemed to ebb from her muscles. She tried vainly to draw in air, but her breathing was a rasping gurgle in her own ears punctuated by coughs and splutters, like the working of an ancient bellow, wormed with holes and covered in rust.

Her pulse thundered frantically, each beat of her heart making her head throb with pain as the blood welled in her head, surging through the veins of her brow and temples with force so that she was sure the vessels would burst. Her eyes seemed to swell in their sockets, bulging from her lids as if wanting to escape the explosive pressure that built inside her skull and pop out.

Akane tried to seize the ribbon around her neck, clawing at the fabric wildly, nails tearing at her own skin as she strove for grip.

Kodachi continued laughing, the sound cresting into her infamous, haunting cackle. "This method is so inelegant," the snobbish girl said with a fake sigh. "I had hoped to finish this quickly and not sully myself by getting close to your foul form."

The ribbon's grip tightened with a jerk. "So inelegant," she repeated, "but so much more satisfying."

Akane was fading; she could feel it as if something were leaking from her. Her hands had dropped limp to her sides, she no longer had the strength to lift them. Her mind raged at her to move, to keep fighting, but that inner voice grew softer like the dissipating echoes in a deep cavern. Her vision began to waver, the image of the street before her becoming blurry, the picture seemed to stretch and contract as if rendered on rubber. She had once been happy to live on such quiet, peaceful streets, but now as her thought grew sluggish she cursed them for being empty. Darkness began to creep in slowly from behind her eyes, wisps of blackness closing in. From the void she could hear the sound of clanging metal.

The pressure vanished, and she slumped to the ground. Air rushed into her in one great rush, her mouth open as she pulled in the air with a rumbling croak. Her head felt stuffed with cotton. The pavement was cool against her cheek as she lay there, mouth hanging as she gasped in huge lungfuls. Her eyes opened a crack and she saw a world that spun round like a kaleidoscope. Then something black stamped in front of her and everything was shocked into clear resolution. The houses stretched in the distance behind what Akane recognised as a foot. She tried to roll to her back, her gaze following the length of the sleek, black-clad leg to its owner.

"Ukyo?" she gasped as her eyes found a grim face and locks of long chestnut chair.

The chef stood firm in her Okonomiyaki garb, snug black leggings conforming to the curves of her legs, splayed wide and slightly bent in a defensive stance. She lacked her usual bandolier of spatulas, her blue tunic bound by a simple white sash around her narrow waist. Her great battle spatula was gripped in white-knuckled fists, the weapon held tightly before her braced like a shield as she glared at her opponent who growled from several paces away, hunched warily as her ribbon lashed and swung about her like a serpent.

"You," Kodachi screeched, "What are you doing here?"

"I'm sorry your ladyship, but apparently you haven't heard that even us peasants can have ninja helpers now," Ukyo smirked, "and mine is much better than your little umpa lumpa."

"Sasuke, the worm," the gymanast hissed in a tone that made Akane feel sorry for the inept little shinobi. The ribbon lashed again with furious snap.

"Have you lost what little of it you had, you Psycho?" Ukyo demanded.

Kodachi's face grew warped as she bared her teeth; a snap of her whip smashed the pavement, raising a gout of shattered concrete. "So the witch is saved from her reckoning by a sister of the same evil coven. Flocking together like ravens about rotting carrion, birds of the same wicked feather."

Suddenly her rant broke into loud peals of piercing laughter, "but perhaps it would be best to kill two such birds with the one stone."

"I would say you're the one flying high, sugar," the chef said, sneering the last word.

"Ukyo!" Akane groaned as she fought to push herself to her hands.

"Sit back, Akane," the taller girl said never taking her eyes from the cackling gymnast. "Leave Lady Loony to me, you just guard my delivery, 'kay?" Ukyo shifted to the side, her stance slipping in front of Akane, almost protectively. Akane grit her teeth, and tried to stand but pain lanced her knees and kept her down. _Damn it, _she cursed silently, as she watched the other women charge at each other.

The air snapped as Kodachi lashed out her ribbon, forcing Ukyo to shift to the side. The fabric tip smashed the pavement as its target slipped to the right, barely slowing in her dash.

As she closed the gap Ukyo swung her spatula in a massive swipe, the steel flat aiming to swat the gymnast aside.

Kodachi sprang back, pulling herself from the weapons path, black locks tossed in the wind raised by the huge utensil.

As the rich girl slid back, Akane saw her wrist twirl, a circular wave rippled along the rose-coloured silk.

"Ukyo!" she yelled, watching the ribbon contort and twist sinuously, the end reeling back on its length and streaking to the chef's back, still turning with the momentum of her missed attack.

Ukyo jerked at Akane's call, and her eyes narrowed at the wicked smirk that crawled across Kodachi's painted lips. Surrendering to the pull of her heavy weapon, she pivoted on her heels and pulled the spatula in tight. She gripped the haft with one hand and she pressed her other palm to the flat blade, bracing for the strike.

The pink tip struck the steel with a clang and a flash of sparks that lit Ukyo's grimace as the vibration rang through her.

Kodachi jumped on the momentary advantage as she leaped up and struck with both of her slippered feet, slamming her heels into the back of Ukyo's skull before somersaulting backwards.

Ukyo stumbled forwards from the blow and gritted her teeth, but quickly shook the strike off, and turned once again to face her opponent, the muscles in her jaw now bunching visibly.

"Such defiance you have against your just rewards," Kodachi sneered, as the anger seemed to build in the chef.

"Cram it up your inbred rear," Ukyo spat, hefting her weapon.

The gymnast's eyes narrowed and her face seemed to drain of any colour, becoming ghostly pale but for her blood red lips, which twisted into a scowl. The ribbon that whirled in accelerating rings over her head trembled as the fist that controlled it quivered with rage.

"You dare insult my lineage, you common beast-lying harlot," she hissed.

"Your lineage, yourself and the horse that carried your fat ass in," Ukyo replied, punctuating her words by spitting forcefully to the floor.

The dark-haired girl's only retort was a wordless cry, a high-pitched roar like the scream of a leopard, and it was with feline speed and grace that she attacked leaping into the sky, her lithe body arching as she flipped and then spun tightly. The ribbon twirled after her, its pink trail watched intently by Ukyo who lowered in her stance fingers flexing on her spatula's haft.

Kodachi's aerial pirouettes gave strength to her weapon; the fabric gain more power from each revolution until it snapped out with speed that blistered the air.

Ukyo was ready, and batted the flailing fabric aside with the blade of her spatula. As the ribbon reeled away, she jabbed at the gymnast with the steel edge.

She missed her mark as her opponent pushed stiffly on the flat and swung herself over the chef's head, ready to strike from behind.

Ukyo was ready, and twisted her hips sharply, swinging arms back to slam the butt of her spatula into Kodachi's gut.

The girl gasped, folding over the steel haft.

Ukyo twisted the weapon, squeezing another groan from her enemy before she whipped her body around, reversing her spin and bringing the spatula's blade around in a wild arc, swatting Kodachi aside like a giants fist.

The gymnast crashed into the ground several paces away, grunting as her shoulder ploughed into the pavement as the force of her impact left her rolling across the concrete. She stopped as she flopped on to her back, her face screwed up into a tight grimace when as a cough made her body jerk.

Kodachi's teeth ground as she tried to roll on to her side reaching a hand for her ribbon that lay in a limp coil a pace from her fallen form. Ukyo had closed in, pressing her heel down on the gymnast's questing fingers, watching the other girl's face twist as she ground her food on the bones.

"Okay Kodachi, lets talk," the chef said lowering the blade of her spatula to Kodachi's neck. "What's the deal?"

Akane moved towards the pair. Her legs felt like water, knees trembling with each laboured step she took. Her ribs seemed to ache even more now that she could breathe, her chest blazing each time she inhaled. She hissed as a lance of pain shot through her ankles making her stumble. She wobbled but managed to keep upright and continued forwards, her path swaying from side to side as she advanced on her rickety legs.

Rubbing at the reddened flesh of her neck Akane kept her eyes locked on Kodachi' whose own empty gaze fixed on the edge of Ukyo's weapon.

"C'mon fruitcake, spill it" Ukyo growled pressing her weapon in tighter.

"Another time, witch." Kodachi gasped, clapping her hands together.

Smoke exploded with a small flash; wisps of white clouds flowering from the gymnast's hands.

Ukyo cried out dropping her weapon and clasping her hands over her face to protect herself from the gas. Then both girls disappeared, becoming fading, flickering shadows amidst the rising smoke.

Akane yelled the chef's name and forced her body into motion, stumbling forwards and pushing her self to run, which came more as a hobbling trot. With clenched teeth she endured the aches of her body to throw herself into the cloud.

Harsh coughs rang amidst the rushing sound of the flushing smoke that filled her ears as the gas clogged her lungs. She kept her eyes squeezed shut, but could already feel a stinging burn blossom beneath her lids. She had to get out of this.

Tracking onto the sound of Ukyo's splutter, she launched herself in that direction, colliding into the other girl's body and ejecting them from the poisonous haze.

They landed together in a heap of tangled limbs; Akane yelping as the impact shocked her already bruised ribs. Any complaint the chef made have made at the hard landing was swallowed by a renewed fit of coughs. Her eyes still burned but it was fading and she forced herself to open them. The haze of smoke was dying, the last wisps being carried into the sky by the wind. A steel canister rattled on the ground, still hissing. Nearby a still twisted length of pink ribbon lay across the cracked pavement, but there was no sign of its mistress.

"The fruitcake gone?" Ukyo said in a horse voice.

"I think so," Akane replied, she turned her head to scan the street for their enemy, but winced as the motion sent flares along her raw neck.

Ukyo stood, brushing herself down. She turned and offered Akane a hand. Her eyes were reddened and watery slits, and tracks of tears were etched in the dust on her cheeks, but she managed a weak smile. Akane glowered and her jaw bunched as she slowly got to her feet on her own strength, ignoring her body's protests. The other girl frowned, but turned back to the ravaged street. Her eyes narrowed as they fell on the abandoned ribbon.

"Woah," she muttered, "She really wanted to kill us this time."

Akane opened her mouth to reply, but could not find anything to say. Kodachi had been out for blood, _mine especially, _she added silently, her mouth twisting with the bitter taste that thought left.

Ukyo's hands wafted at the air as she bent to collect her dropped spatula, the gas had gone but the chef still seemed cautious, waving away at the air while pinching her nose. Taking up her weapon, she slung it over the back of her shoulders and made her way back to Akane.

"Let's get you home," she said with a nod.

"I'll be fine," Akane replied roughly, picking up her scuffed and torn book bag. She glanced at the bag, which contained the weights given to her by Genma; it had fallen off when the strap had snapped from Kodachi's attack. A steel gymnastics hoop, now bent, lay next to it. She shivered as the keen, razor sharp edge glinted in the fading daylight.

"I don't need you to check on me," she grunted and she began to walk towards her home, head held high and praying that Ukyo did not notice the trembling of her weakened legs.

"Perish the thought," Ukyo replied in a tone that irked Akane with its dryness. "I just want to wash the damned, stinging stuff from my eyes, and your place is closer than mine." She lifted a flat takeaway box, miraculously unharmed after the battle. "My delivery is on the way too,"

"Fine," Akane huffed, and continued to walk as fast as her aching legs would allow. There was nothing to say to that. Her hand almost drifted to her sore neck, but she forced it to remain at her side. She heard Ukyo's footstep following behind, and her hands balled in a quivering fist as the sensation sank in that once again, she had been rescued.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It had not even deserved to be called rain. There were many types of rain: slow falling fat droplets that pounded you, fast bullets of water that flailed your skin, icy cold drops that seemed to pierce the surface and chill you straight to the bone. Today the rain had come in a spray so fine it had been invisible but for the barest shimmer of light on the winds, the tiny beads making no sound as they fell all across the forest, not even causing a quiver on the frail leaves of the evergreens.

Ranma had not even felt the moisture that dampened his skin, had not even known of the rain. The magic of Jusenkyo had known though. The magic always knew.

She unclamped her lips from between her teeth and sighed, aiming the expelled air upwards and watching as it stirred her bangs of thick scarlet hair. As her tresses fell back into place a sardonic grin crept onto her face as she considered the action. The gesture ironically summed up her opinion of her situation; it blew.

She could hear the rushing of the river now. Tossing the bottle into the air, she listened to the sloshing of the meagre remaining contents as it spun end over then snagged it out of the air as it dropped. She had left Ryoga back at the camp, trying to ignore that nagging in back of her head that said that the moron would wander off and get himself lost. Ranma hoped the pig wished to change back into a man as much as she did, which should keep him at the campsite while she fetched the water.

Doctor Tofu had left before the rain had come, returning to his new master. Ranma frowned, still unsure what to make of that and all that his friend had told them. _The Devine Order of the Bagua_, he thought, his brows knit together.

A society dedicated to the knowledge of the life force Ki; thousands of years of research into the behaviour and manifestations of the energy that bound all spirits together as one, it was what Ranma had been looking for when he had began this quest and left Nerima. The proof that the realm of martial arts was so much bigger than his hometown or even Japan itself, loomed over him with mist-shrouded peaks. Near the summit of Emei mountain walked eight living libraries of Ki techniques.

Since their encounter with the Order's guardsmen, Ryoga had been whining that they should leave the area. Despite the fact that it had been him who had pummelled the five warriors, the lost boy had been adamant that Ranma's battle with Willow was attracting too much trouble and that he did not want his name to be dragged down with whatever new trials Ranma was bound to attract.

Although it was mostly the same old 'Ranma is the source of all evil and misfortune' crap he usually spouted, Ranma could not help but admit that there was a ring of truth to Ryoga's words. The very thought made his lips twist into a grimace, a bitter taste in his mouth, but the fact was that fight had gone too far. He knew, despite Doctor Tofu's assurances that he would smooth things over, that something would come from it. It always did.

It still seemed a shame to leave though, because from what the Doctor had said about the Order, particularly this Master Locke, they were good people. They were not dragon lords or winged princes of fire, but masters of their art seeking to gather and utilise knowledge for the benefit of all. Tofu had said that the locals revered the Order and the Eight Masters for sharing their talents. With their understanding of the cycle of ki that flowed through nature and maintained order, the Order had been able to teach the villager's ancestors farming techniques that used the periodic flux of energy to ensure a plentiful harvest, aligning their field with the web of ki channels in the earth. By living in accord with the Greater Cycle, those who dwelled on Mount Emei had enjoyed cleaner water, survived the wildest storms and bloodiest conflicts in Chinese history, and lived long lives in lush lands where famine, pestilence and war rarely rode. Ranma knew that such people make good allies and maybe, in some ways, teachers.

However, he also knew that was unlikely. Even as he thought of all the reasons why he should endeavour to befriend the Masters, he felt the same arguments start a warm tingle in his guts, like setting sparks to tinder. The sensation made his skin itch like something was moving restlessly beneath the surface, something hot. He tried to push it down, stuffing the growing heat back into his belly,but his fingers moved restlessly. He knew this feeling well, it was the relapse of a flaw, a vice, almost and addiction. It was something that always got the better of him, something wild he could not tame, something that always created more problems and sunk him deeper into trouble. Ranma had a bad habit.

He liked to fight people who fought well.

"Do you always glow like that, or are you just having a good day?" a voice inquired from behind her.

Ranma started, body-jerking stiff but her instinct slammed into control and turned the startled jump into a tight spin. Pivoting on her heel she whirled around, her legs bent slightly like the coiling of a spring and her hands flashed up before her, fingers curled into loose fists.

"I see you weren't expecting me, or sensing my presence," the stranger said, one eyebrow rising towards a flare of spiked, yellow hair. "So what's with the aura, Red?"

Ranma's eyes narrowed at the nickname but her half-formed frown died as she realised what the man was referring to. Though she could not see it herself, she felt the prickly feeling of goose bumps as they skimmed across her skin, the sensation she had come to associate with the release of her battle aura. The line of her lips tightened; she had let her mind wander out too far. As she had walked in to the mists of her own thoughts, a tiny crack had formed in her will and allowed her fighting spirit to leak out into the visible spectra. She inhaled deeply through her nostrils, filling her lungs with the swelling tension of her abdomen, and the goose bumps vanished.

"Not too bad," the man murmured, drawing Ranma's attention back to him. She met his gaze and something in his bright blue eyes made her feel as if cold oil was trailing over her flesh.

The figure was tall and lithe, he stood with his shoulders slouched idly and his hands buried in the deep pockets of his pale khakis. His posture spoke of practised laziness and ease, despite standing perched upon the slender wooden bough of a tree. The branch swayed with the gentle blowing of the wind, yet his stance never wavered. The same soft gusts rustled his bright hair, which struck upwards like a nest of spires but for the one lock that fell to his nose like a descending spear. The man wore a long black mantle of rippling fabric, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Beneath the folds Ranma could make out the pastel blue of a thin shirt, the top two buttons unfastened to the collar, which hung open. Upon the dark silk of the mantle two dragons strode, the play of the light across the gilded threads animating the serpents into sinuous false-motion, clashing in a fury of golden scales and silver fangs.

Ranma eased out his anxious crouch and assumed a neutral stance, one foot behind the other with his arms at his sides with loose tension; he regarded the other man with narrowed eyes.

"So what brings one of the mighty masters of Emei to this part of the wood," he asked, forcing his voice flat.

The man brow flickered. "You've heard of us? Then Locke's little envoy must have stopped by."

"You could say that." Ranma did not like the dryness that had crept into his tone. _Little envoy, indeed_, she thought darkly. "So which one are you, Jack Frost, lord of snow and sneezes?"

The blonde man smirked and let out a soft chuckle. "Good, you have a sense of humour." His smile widened into a wide grin that twisted her stomach into knots for some reason she could not place. "Since you asked so politely, I am called Blitz, Lord of the Thunders."

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Ranma grunted, she knew it was not the right thing to say. She wanted to make friends with these people, but there was something about this guy that riled her.

Blitz shrugged. "Most people are, but I see I will have to try harder to impress you." As he finished his sentence his body tilted forwards, tipping until his inertia caused him to topple from the branch and fall, spinning head over foot like a tumbling bottle. He landed smoothly on his feet, not making even the slightest sound as he touched down; his hands had never left his pockets. He was still smiling at her, the corner of his lips forming a wry curve.

"That won't work either," she sneered. "I can do that much myself," she said ignoring the faint stain of doubt that clouded her boast. It was true that such a fall was easy to her, but whether she could have made such a landing as he had, silently and without even a small quiver of his nonchalant exterior was something she was less sure of.

"I don't doubt that you could," Blitz said. "After all you defeated my dear sister, Willow. So I'm sure you have many _talents._" There was something behind the way he had said that word, so softly that the sound seemed to hum with a double meaning.

Blitz walked towards her with a languid strut, each step slow and measured as if he were gliding across the grassy earth. "I'm sure Locke's friend has told you how curious we all are about you and your friend. So I thought I'd come and check you out for myself."

As he spoke Ranma watched his eyes leave her face and rove down her body, his gaze like an oily hand that lingered over her curves. Her fists balled so tightly that her nails stung her palms as she fought down the bile that swelled in her gut.

_He wants to check me out all right, _she thought furiously as she felt her teeth grind against each other.

"I see the aura is back. Was it something I said?" His eyes had widened for a moment, a small tremor entered his voice. Its disappeared quickly though, and his sly smirk and twisted his lips again, small glitters of amusement flickering in his irises.

"No," she hissed, "but if you're going to continue saying things, say them to my _face_," she said, roaring the last word.

A low chuckle erupted from his throat through lips that had crawled into a steeper smirk. "I'm not sure I can do that, it's a natural reaction to a hot babe. I am a guy after all."

_So am I_, she was about to yell into his face, when she looked into his leering eyes and the words died in her throat.

He had gotten close, she suddenly realised, too close. Somehow without her noticing the blonde lecher had crossed the gap between them. Now the man was watching her intently less than an arm's length away. As if trying to test the measurement, Blitz reached out with a hand, arm moving slowly, fingers reaching to brush her skin.

Snarling, Ranma batted the entreating arm away fiercely. Blitz yelled and yanked back his hand, rubbing at the tender spot where the protruding bone of Ranma's steel hard forearm had jabbed into his flesh.

"Hmm," he muttered. "Looks like I really am going to have to try hard to impress you." His pale teeth caught the light as he smirked and ran a hand through his blade like spikes of hair "but I like a challenge."

"Funny," Ranma said with a sly grin. "So do I," she lowered her stance, lifting her guards, hands curled into loose fists.

__"See, Red," Blitz raked a hand through his wild spikes again, "we already have things in common."

As the sound of his last word hung in the air, his form blurred into motion.

Ranma's eyes followed him, watching as he flashed to her side. Pivoting onher heel her right knife hand clove the air in a sweeping arc.

The blow stopped short of its spiked target as Blitz's forearm was swung into its path, the Bagua master flowing past her. Ranma watched the sparkling light shimmer across the golden-scaled dragon across the back of his robe as he spun, one leg crossing behind the other to step around the furious redhead.

_Behind!_ Ranma's instincts screamed and she jerked her hips round, twisting her pelvis to throw force into her arm as she jabbed her elbow out to her rear. Satisfaction flared through her chest as she felt her attack make contact, hearing a woof of expelled air as her opponent folded, the point of her elbow ploughed into his gut. She took a half step forward, gaining space for her next blow when the skin over her spine began to crawl.

She glanced down, eyes wide and jaw tightening as she glared at the two, fine fingered hands that had clamped over the swells of her breasts, the fingers flexing to knead at the pliant flesh. Her body stiffened, muscles tense and trembling. Like the vibrating string of a guitar, the music was a tune of rage.

"Hands off!" she screamed, seizing both molesting hands by the fingers and yanking them back, delighting in the yelp that accompanied the bending of the digits.

She lifted her leg up, cocking it like the hammer of a gun before she snapped it back, heel colliding with her attackers shin. The sound of Blitz's sharp hiss came from right next to her ear.

A low growl rumbled in her throat as she clamped one of his wrists in her left hand and the right wrapped itself around the silken folds of his sleeves. The snarl swelled into a roar and she dropped to her knee, flipping the blonde man over her shoulder and driving him towards the dirt.

The sound of Blitz's hand slapping against the ground was muffled by the thick grass, but it still dispersed the energy of his fall, allowing the Chinese master to land lightly in an arc, only the backs of his shoulders and the balls of his feet touching the ground.

"Almost," she heard him say, his tone filled with wry amusement. The arm she still held pinned against her twisted sharply, snaking from her grip. Both of his hands then pushed into the ground bringing the man, curling backward as his body seemed to fold. His legs came over; fine leather shoes swing down towards Ranma, who sprawled backwards to avoid the blow.

She watched as he continued to roll onto his shoulder blades, knees down pressing into his chest. He winked at her from between his feet, before he snapped himself straight again, flipping onto his feet.

The sight of his grinning face made her teeth grind as Ranma tucked herself into a handspring, landing in a wary crouch with her white-knuckled fists quivering before her.

The mountain above them sang with the pealing of a bell. The faint rings echoed through the misted peak like a ghostly call filtering through the trees. Ranma's muscles relaxed but she kept her eyes locked on the man in front of her, fighting the urge to follow his gaze to the haze-shrouded mountaintop.

Blitz spat what sounded like a curse in Chinese as he glowered at the ocean of dark clouds that gathered at Emei's apex. "Always when I'm having fun," he grunted. His eyes then found her again and he flashed his teeth at her in a wide, slanted grin. "The mountain calls me," he crooned. "Try not to miss me too much, Red." His eyebrow quirked as he winked at her and he left in a blur of black and rustling silk.

The branches did not give the slightest creak of protest as he bounded into the thick forest.

Ranma's breath sawed in and out through her bared and clenched teeth, she could feel the goosebumps blazing across her quivering body like wildfire. The grass as her feet became blackened and twisted, flattening under the pressure of her raging battle aura.

"Bastard!" she bellowed and kicked the ground with an angry lash of her foot, clumps of turf and earth shooting forwards as a spray of dirt rose from the soil like a giant tidal wave.

Watching the large chunks of mud splatter and break against the far trees, she felt herself relax. Her shoulder slumped as if deflated by the heavy sigh that she blew from her mouth. Ranma glanced at the tear she had produced in the forest floor and frowned. Her chest felt filthy where he had touched her and she stepped back to where she had dropped her water bottle. The plastic folded in her grip, but she forced herself to relax and rushed to the babbling stream to fill the vessel, feeling a surging desperation to be male again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The air hummed a high melody and light danced across the bright metal. The twin blades sang as they cut, the keen edges shining like crossed sickle moons. The branch did not even quiver before a rain of twigs and forked evergreen leaves fell like shed tears, as if the tree itself wept. Brand smirked and crossed both weapons over his head, letting loose a flurry of slashes. The blades became flashes of sparkling steel and wailed like furious winds, a deadly storm that swept the falling debris and scattered it, tiny slices of plant flesh and wooden shrapnel spraying across the worn, white stones.

Brand surveyed his work with a stiff nod, before continuing down the mountain path, one of his deer-hook swords hanging limp in his fist while he resumed twirling its partner across his calloused knuckles. He lumbered down the slope half-heartedly, dragging his steps idly except for when his hands would flash out to sever another low hanging branch, or to slice some long cross that jutted out from the cracks of the mountainside. The exercise would liven his step, but as the sound of rushing water floated to his ears his pace slowed, his scowl deepening.

The trees slipped away as the mountain split to allow a surging stream of icy water to slide across its rocky face. The waters surface was like liquid glass, falling in clear flows that caught the light as the low winter sun slid behind a grey ocean of clouds. Brand descended the ancient steps, hewn from the very face of the mountain, smoothed by the tool of man and the hands of the centuries. As he stepped lightly downwards, he watched the stream splash against the damp, jagged rocks. The water turned white as it crashed upon the ancient stone and wet vapour rose in clinging droplets like a pale mist.

Rock jutted from the mountain into a wide plateau, the rushing falls plummeting past the ledge making it glisten in its spray. The moist vapours, Emei's own ghostly shroud, parted for Brand as he strolled across the ledge. Shimmering silhouettes formed, the low arching roof of a shrine, its green tiles and red pillars slowly taking form with each step he took. The shadow of a man appeared, a huge wavering giant in the fog.

As Brand stepped once more into clear air, the figure slowly resolved into Cragg, the huge warrior standing stiffly with his hands clasped at his back, head titled upwards to stare upwards at the shards of light that glowed among the canopy of dark clouds around Emei's summit.

"You know, Brand, it's not very Taoist to go around slicing up the local plant life," Willow said from where she sat, sprawled on a flat slab of grey rock. Her legs were stretched out before her, crossed at the frayed cuffs of her faded blue jeans. She leant back on her hands, craning her neck over her shoulder to glare at him with one eyebrow quirked behind the long strands of golden hair that fell over her face and brushed her cheeks.

Brand grunted and flicked the scraps of twigs and broken leaves from the sleeves of his long green coat. "None of your business," he grumbled.

"It is our business," a new voice said. Stone pushed himself off from the gnarled tree he had been leaning against, the shadows of the bare branches casting harsh lines across his angular face. He wore a habit of dull maroon fabric, the material worn and threadbare with frayed tears at the shoulders that revealed the corded muscles of his forearms and biceps. His clothes were smeared with white dust and his hands and bare feet were caked in a chalky powder, showing that he had returned from the dark caves that wormed beneath the mountain. He inclined his shaven head in a bare sketch of a bow that Brand returned respectfully, but just as minimally.

"A Bagua master slicing apart the trees out of petulance is…unseemly," the older man said as he passed by Brand, walking towards where Willow sat.

The deer-hook swords trembled in Brand's fists as he fought the scowl that tugged his lips. Finally he snorted, scuffing the ground with a kick of his boots. "What is this all about anyway, and why drag me all the way up here for it?" he demanded.

"Locke has new information about the strangers," Cragg rumbled in his deep voice. Willow's eyes were distant, staring through the rushing falls and into the void, but Brand saw her tense at Cragg's word. He felt his jaw tighten, knowing that his sister was still wondering about the two Japanese, about that boy.

"Then why are we here?" he snapped. "This is why we have the great hall is it not?" He glanced around, darting his eyes over the surrounding. "Where's Blitz?"

"Probably goofing around with some slut," Willow said with a shrug. "He heard the bell, someone will tell him where we are." Her frame slumped as she sighed slowly. "As for why we are here…" she began in a wavering voice but the harsh chorus of loud, spluttering coughs gave him his answer.

The coughing grew louder, wet and gravely as it hacked at the air. Cragg had his eyes squeezed shut, a deep frown marring his wide face and making his bottom lip tremble. Stone stared at the ground, brows furrowed as he glared at his dusty feet. He turned to Willow whose slim body flinched as the harsh cough rang out. With a gasp and a croak the terrible noise stopped and the air seemed unnaturally quiet in its absence, the whisper of the wind and the hiss of the falls the barest of tremors in the long silence.

Brand opened his mouth but no sound came out, his throat seemingly locked. He licked at his dry lips before he tried again, this time forcing his voice out though very softly.

"Was that…?" was all he could manage.

Willow did not answer; she pulled her knees in close and hugged them to her chest. Her bright golden bangs fell across her eyes like a veil, hiding her face from view as she stared over the edge of the ledge at the rushing waterfall and its clouds of white vapour.

Brand turned to Stone who stared back with a face as hard and impassive as the mountain above. He could feel the man's glacial eyes bore into him before they narrowed and he nodded.

"Locke and Cloud are with her," he said finally.

"How is she?" he asked, but Stone gave no reply, he simply folded his arms across his broad chest and closed his eyes, waiting. Brand scowled and stepped towards the other man, ready to demand an answer but a whisper rang in the air. He turned to watch the red-panelled door of the shrine slowly crawl open, the metal of its base rasping against the stones beneath as it opened just enough for Locke's withered but wiry form to step through. His long white brows hung against his face as they furrowed, creasing his dark, leathery face. He gnawed his thin, bloodless bottom lip with his incisors as he stepped from the shrine, pulling the door closed softly in his wake.

Willow scrabbled to her feet and stepped forwards, mouth already opening.

"She's sleeping," the old man said, reading the question on their faces as he glanced up. His frown smoothed as he smiled towards Willow, but to Brand it seemed a very small, frail smile.

"She needs her rest," Locke continued, hands rummaging around within the wide sleeves of his silken, maroon robe, "So I tapped a point to make her sleep for easier."

"What happened?" Willow asked sharply. "She was looking so much better yesterday." Her shoulders quivered as she glared at the ancient master, as if accusing him of some foul misdeed.

Locke sighed and shook his head, long brows flailing. "She was, but I'm afraid these things happen. Recovery is never a smooth gradient; there are occasional low spots. Perhaps caused by an errant eddy in her ki flow." He shrugged but his smile lifted and grew warmer. "With some rest, and the abundance of ki in the waters flow I'm sure she'll be on the mend again soon."

He was trying to reassure them, Brand could tell from his tone His withered tone was soft and high, the way an adult speaks to a small child. Nevertheless he felt comforted by the words, safe in knowledge that the old man was a master of his arts, and that their older sister was stronger than any illness.

Locke resumed fumbling through his voluminous sleeves, frowning as his hands flailed about beneath the shimmering silk. After a while he pulled out his long stemmed pipe and twirled it in his fingers. Withdrawing a pouch of herbs from the folds around his black sash he began stuffing the pipes silver bowl with the fragrant leaves. He then began patting his baggy garments again, obviously seeking his matches, but his pale grey eyes settled onto Brand and his face folded with a warm smile. He extended the pipe with one hand, and with a grumble Brand snatched it from his thin fingers.

Holding the stem in the fingers of his left hand, he wrapped the pipe bowl in his right fist and clenched it tight. He could feel the song of the silver, skittering and bouncing like a discordant tune on a xylophone. Flexing his hand and squeezing the metal tight, he reached for the song and with a jerk of his muscles twanged it, making it hum with a screeching rhythm. Brand then passed the pipe back to Locke with a low grunt, as the aged scholar nodded his thanks and brought the pipe to his mouth. He swiftly began puffing the leaves into an orange glow, rings of smoke floating from the blackening herbs.

The door rasped open again and Cloud emerged, but only the back of his sleekly muscled frame was visible. His dark hair blended softly into the shadows within the shrine as he leaned through the doorway, speaking softly to the one inside. After a moment he stepped back from the portal, the light shimmering in waves across his silk-garbed back as he moved. His hand whitened and trembled against the red panels of the door as he pushed it closed before him. Brand felt his jaw drop as he saw quiver run through Cloud's body, setting his body trembling like a tree in an autumn gale. A jerk suddenly followed, his spine locking and his form bolting straight and upright. He pivoted on his heel and began stalking towards them, his dark scowl and flashing blue eyes gave him a face like a storm cloud, and Brand took a reflexive step back before he could stop himself.

"Let's make this quick," he hissed as he folded his arms over his chest and glared at Locke, who sucked noisily at his pipe step as if nothing had changed. "What has your student found out about the strangers? Are they Amazons?"

Locke's withered face wrinkled as he grinned. "We've been quite fortunate," he said, pipe bobbing as he formed the words. "My student was already a close acquaintance of the strangers. You see back in Japan he is a doctor, specialising in shiatsu therapy and holistic medicines. Our stranger, named Ranma, was one of his patients, as were many of his friends."

"Well that's just great," Cloud spat dryly, "but you still haven't answered my question. Are they Amazon's?" He bit the words out one by one in a voice like iron.

"Not exactly," the old man said slowly before blowing a ring of wispy smoke into the air. "Though there is a relation, as this young Ranma is apparently the betrothed of the Amazon's youngest champion."

"Have you lost the plot, Locke?" Willow barked from where she sat on the trough stone, legs crossed in front of her. "I know the Amazons hate men, but I don't think they've all turned into lesbians."

Brand frowned at the young girl's tone and shot her a dark glare she did not seem to notice.

"Ah, well, that's because he's not a girl" Locke replied with a shrug of his thin shoulders. "Apparently he's a victim of an unfortunate accident with the Nyannichuan." He snatched the pipe from his mouth glanced around at his companions one by one and blinked. "Did I not mention that?" he asked after a while.

"No, you didn't" Willow said through gritted teeth.

"Oh." He placed the long step of his pipe back between his small teeth, and inhaled deeply. "I guess I would have if I had not been interrupted," he muttered, regarding Cloud from the corners of his eyes as he blew two long streams of smoke from his nostrils.

"So both strangers are male," Stone said flatly, a summation rather than a question.

Locke nodded.

"And he's been to Jusenkyo," Brand snorted, "the fool."

"Apparently it was some sort of training trip. Tofu -my student- tells me his father is an _interesting _character. But if all of what he says is true, the boy is even more remarkable, and he and his friend require watching very carefully."

"So he's not a cocky bitch but a chauvinistic pig," Willow said harshly. "What's the big deal?"

"From what Tofu tells me, a great deal. The boy is like a living maelstrom, wherever he goes chaos unfolds and things change. Apparently he has over four fiancés and as many bitter rivals." Locke's shoulders shook as he chuckled at some private joke.

Willow gave a pointed snort. "So he's a player, I fail to see what that has to do with us."

Locke's head bowed as he shook it softly, his long eyebrows swaying like tails of white. He sighed loudly, smoke billowing from his nose as the embers in his pipe bowl glowed. Then his grey eyes flicked up and locked on each of them in turn.

"Do you recall that great spike of energy about a year ago, a great wave that came rippling through the ki flux from the north, from Quing Hai province. I believe you were the first to sense it, Brand."

Brand frowned as he felt Locke's probing gaze fall on him, scanning him and wearing on him like an ocean tide, seeming to analyse and magnify every stitch of him. He felt his eyes narrow, "You mean the destruction of Jusendo, don't you?"

The other man nodded his wrinkled head and his lips creased into a small smirk. "Tell us about it, if you would."

"What's to tell?" he snapped. "We already know what happened. You all felt it, though maybe not as closely as I."

"Indulge me," the aged scholar said with gentle smile.

Brand's lips twisted and he rolled his eyes with a sigh. "Fine," he grunted.

"As you said, there was a huge gathering of ki from the mountains of Quing Hai, which caused a ripple in the Greater Cycle. Most of the energy was of the fire phase, and was at first consistent with symptoms of the King of Phoenix Mountain's transformation. However the levels of energy surged to heights unheard of for centuries. I could feel the sheer power of it even here, we all could."

Brand remembered gathering with the others at the mountain's peak and watching the northern skies, his senses quivering with the echo of the distant power. "The energy rose to an explosive level, it was same kind of sensation as an erupting volcano; but bigger, closer," he mused as the memories began to clear.

"Then it just seemed to decay away like a snuffed match, fading to a tiny glow then flickering out beneath my senses. Later you told us that Jusendo had been levelled and the cursed springs flooded." Brand shook himself and scowled. "What is the point to this, anyway?" he barked.

Locke puffed thoughtfully and his pipe while his stroked the long wisps of his beard with a bony hand. "Shouldn't the Phoenix Lord's power have stayed near constant, as it had with all his predecessors? You should have been able to feel Saffron's power from then until the day he died, in a burst of fire and ash. Why didn't you."?

Brand jaw's tightened, and he drew breath to reply but Stone's hard, granite voice broke in.

"Are you implying that this Ranma was the one who defeated Saffron."?

Brand started, body jerking as if had been slapped. He felt his eyes widen in flash and his heart felt as if it had leapt into his throat. From his side her heard Willow gasp loudly. Cloud's face darkened, his jaw bunched and his eyes lit with blue flares.

"That's absurd," he yelled, stepping forward he seized a handful of Locke's purple robes and spun the old man around to stare growl in his face. "No matter how strong this brat is, there is no way he could have beaten Saffron. Once transformed the King of Mount Phoenix is a virtual god. No one short of Cloud could possibly have had the power to defeat him." The feel of the bunched silk in his trembling fist registered in Brand's brain, and he released his grip on the robe as if it were aflame and stepped back swiftly.

Locke frowned, the lines of his face deepening as his withered skin folded with the motion, and brushed his crumpled sleeve. "As you should know, Brand, strength is not just about power. Saffron may have possessed enormous power, but he was no warrior. Skill can often overcome raw power, and these two strangers seem to have plenty of both."

"I'm assuming there is more behind this than that," Cloud said with a lifted brow.

"Well after that day, I sent a message to Mount Phoenix, asking them what happened. For weeks I received know reply, and so I had to call in some favours from an old acquaintance named Jalfurez, a fellow scholar. He reported that some strangers had come to Mount Phoenix and interfered with Saffron's transformation. He could not provide many details, as the Captain of the Phoenix Guard, a severe women by all accounts, had deemed the details classified. However, he was able to tell me that the interlopers had all possessed Jusenkyo curses, and that while two of them were believed to be foreigners, there was also a woman who he said was definitely Amazon. He also passed on a rumour that one of them had fought Saffron in single combat at Jusendo and wounded him, forcing him to revert to a state of infancy."

"Circumstantial evidence," Stone remarked roughly.

Locke nodded, "True, but circumstantial evidence can often lead to the truth, if you have enough for it to no longer seem like circumstance." He withdrew the pipe and expelled another blast of sweet scented smoke, then pursed his lips in thought, crinkled forming around the lines of his thin lips. "Given the other unusual factors in that boy's life, almost anything seems beyond coincidence."

"Seems you're determined to tell us this jerk's life story," Willow muttered as she sat up, folding her legs beneath her. "Shame I forgot my popcorn."

"No need to be facetious, Willow," Locke chided, still wore that same crooked smile. "I just think the more we all know, the better we will be prepared if this boy does prove to be a liability. Besides, there are elements of him and his companion that warrant our attention. Not least is his lineage."

"Lineage?" Brand asked, his brow furrowing. "Something to do with this _interesting _and obviously masterful father figure?"

Locke's head tilted as he puffed on his pipe step. "In a way, but I was mostly talking about his martial lineage. You see the boy's full name is Ranma Saotome, and has been trained since childhood in his family style of martial arts. However it is the style itself that is worrying, as his father Genma Saotome is one of the two second generation masters of the Anything-Goes School of Martial Arts."

"What!" Cloud suddenly roared, and punctuating his words was a loud snap as a crack opened in the mountain beneath his feet. He continued regardless, his voice now lowered to a venomous hiss. "Are you saying that this fool is a student of that devil Happosai?"

"Happosai?" Brand repeated the name, for some reason feeling a sour taste in his mouth. "You mean the bandit, who raided the Chamber of the Forked Tongues and molested the former Master of Thunders. I thought that was just a rumour."

Locke scowled, wrinkled face pinching like he had taken a bite from a lemon. "It is not something that we like to publicise," he muttered. "That was not the only run in our Order has had with that foul man. He is one of the most sneaky and conniving people on this planet, but also he is known to be a formidable martial artist. The Anything-Goes School is the martial arts system he founded, and is not something to be taken lightly.

"However, Tofu tells me that Ranma has not received any formal training from Happosai, but was taught by his father, who is little better. However Tofu also vouches that Ranma is nevertheless a good man, but can be misguided, which gets him into trouble quite often."

"Oh yeah," Willow said dryly. "He's a real gentleman," she rubbed ostentatiously at her shoulder which Brand knew still carried a yellowing bruise from her fight with the Japanese fighter.

"Well I trust Tofu, so I doubt that Happosai's influence makes him a threat. However I cannot say the same about the rashness of youth." Locke's eyes flicked to shoot a sidelong glance at Willow, who squirmed under his gaze. "I did wish to mention it, as his unusual fighting style becomes even more of a concern when you consider that he received his Amazon training from Matriarch Khu Lon herself."

"So that old woman is involved with this too," Stone said coolly. "I would have thought better of her."

"As I mentioned, the boy is linked to the Nichieju by ties of betrothal, his bride is Xian Pu, the Matriarch's named heir and Great-granddaughter. Though Tofu tells me that young Ranma is quite reluctant with the arrangement."

Willow barked a laugh devoid of humour in it, "He's probably just running from commitment so he can screw around more. Typical man." The five men gathered scowled at the comparison, and Cloud's hands balled into a fist as his eyes darted in the direction of the shrine, and the muffled coughing from within.

"Anyway," Locke said, clearing his throat loudly, "it appears that Khu Lon has taken some interest in him, not just as her heir's future mate. Tofu told me that the Matriarch locked the boy in his cursed form for days and made him jump through hoops, in an attempt to get him to wed Xian Pu. However, I doubt it was so simple, as the boy learnt a high level technique from the experience. As well as the Phoenix Wing Gale, it appears that Ranma also knows the Amazonian technique of the Flame Roasted Chestnut fist."

"So, this boy is not only a student of a formidable martial style, he may also have been taught by two of the most renowned – or in Happosai's case infamous- masters in Asia," Brand concluded after a moment. He could hear the pulsing of his heart, its rhythm echoing in his head like a pounded war drum. He rubbed his fingers against his palms, and was surprised to find them moist and sweaty. Fire seethed in his belly.

"What of his friend?" Willow said in a rush. "What of Ryoga?"

Brand felt his jaw tighten as he teeth pressed against each other. His sister's thoughts were still drawn to that boy. He could not fathom, what it was about that impudent brat that held her interest, but he knew he had to quash it. No man would lead his sister awry.

"She raises a good point," Cloud said, with a quirk of his eyebrow. "Is the other stranger as remarkable as you claim this Ranma Saotome is?"

Locke suddenly became fascinated by the swirling smoke that wafted like a misty aura about his frail body. His brows were furrowed so that the tips brushed his face and he wore a sheepish frown. "I'm not sure," he said after a moment.

"You're not sure?" Willow repeated slowly.

"He is interesting, no doubt about that. But Tofu could tell me very little about Ryoga Hibiki, and most of that was in relation to Saotome."

"Can he fight?" Brand asked immediately, trying to keep his own eagerness from his voice.

Locke blinked, "Oh yes, that much is certain. He is said to be quite skilled. Tofu could not tell me what style of martial arts he practises, or much else about him, other than he turned up in their town not long after Saotome, chasing him. Apparently, they are rivals."

"Then why are they here, together?" Cloud asked?

Locke shrugged, "Who knows? The Japanese are a weird bunch, the martial artists most of all. With all the notions of honour and the samurai tradition, it's no surprise that two people who will be bitter enemies one minute will become allies and friends the next." He sucked nosily on his pipe before blowing out another smoke ring. "Their literature is full of such things."

"They didn't seem too friendly," Willow said, flicking her tail of golden hair over her shoulder. "She, he rather, flung a pack at his head while his back was turned."

"Maybe so," Locke said with a slow nod, " but Tofu told me that they have helped each other out on several occasions. He said they argued yesterday when he spoke to them, but they seemed to be amiable. Just a load of pride and hot air, as young men tend to have."

Brand scowled as he saw Locke's eyes glance in his direction.

"It does not seem unreasonable," the aging master continued, "to assume that Ryoga Hibiki was another of the strangers that stormed Mount Phoenix, since the Amazon girl was most likely Saotome's bride." His gnarled forehead crinkled as he frowned, the focus of his eyes growing distant as he lost himself in thought. "I wonder," he said softly from around the stem of his pipe.

Willow exhaled sharply, a sound that was half growl and half sigh. "What do you wonder this time?" she muttered as she rolled her eyes.

"As I recall, before the incident at Mount Phoenix we heard of another unusual incident among the three tribes of Quing Hai. The Prince Herb of the Musk and two of his finest warriors, were all beaten in single combat on a trip to Japan, by three young warriors."

"And you think this involved these two as well?" Brand gave a derisive grunt. "Why not blame him for the defeat of Kirin of Nekonron as well."

"It is not as ludicrous as you seem to think, Brand," Locke said, his lips tightening. "Prince Herb journeyed to Japan in search of the lost open-water kettle. It was also said that only Khu Lon of the Joketsuzoku knew of its location. Also one of the martial artists who fought with the Musk was known to practise a strange style that utilised a unique ability to pull weapons of any size out of nowhere. Tofu tells me that among young Ranma's rivals, there is a Amazon man named Mu Tsu who possessed such an ability."

He raised his pipe to his creased lips for a quick puff, misty, sweet tendrils floating into the sky. "The most compelling evidence however; is that in both events, at Jusendo and with the Musk, there was the presence of very wild, but very short-lived tornados."

Silence crept in among the six master of Bagua zhang like the mist that slithered around the peaks of Emei. The hiss of the waterfalls fell away as if the rushing waters had been muted. Brand could feel the cold gust of the mountain wind on his face, see it rustle Locke's dark robes and Willow's golden hair, but he could not hear it. He was deaf but for the swirl of thoughts and processed information in his brain and the seething bubbling of the fire in his gut.

Surprisingly, it was the stolid giant Cragg who shattered the calm, he had not yet uttered a word, but now his lips moved slowly and his deep voice rumbled like a landslide. "So what do we do now?" he asked simply.

"It is clear that the laws of the Accords have been broken," Cloud said his blue eyes shining through the shadows of his dark bangs. "However, to what extent is the question, and what we are to do about it? Much depends on whether we consider Ranma Saotome as Amazon by virtue of his betrothal."

"I'm not sure there is much we can do," Locke said, shaking his head. "Perhaps is to late."

"What!" Cloud snapped.

Locke gave another shrug of his bony shoulders, his robe swaying at the motion. "It had been over three thousand years since the Accords of Quing Hai were written,.Since then, our Order has shunned any involvement with affairs outside of our mountain. The laws of that age have lost their power over them, as have we. If incidents such as this go all the way to the Matriarch of the Nichieju, and the Royalty of Phoenix Mountain and the Musk this is almost certain."

"Are you saying we do nothing," Cloud hissed, his hands were at his sides balled into quivering fists. "Let them do whatever they want? What of Jusenkyo? What of the work of our ancestors? What of the Reds?"

Locke sighed and in that moment he seemed much older, and very tired. "I do not like the idea myself, Cloud, but remember it was our ancestors who pledged not to interfere three millennia ago. It was you own teacher, the last Master of Heaven that watched as the Reds took the land. He had wanted to do something as you do, he felt it his duty. However he knew that he could not, 'Emperors fall and flags are raised' he said to me, the pain plain in his eyes, 'but our place is here.' We have stood apart from the world for millennia, we can not go back now." His lips curled into a smile, but it was a weak and pale thing. "The tribes of Quing Hai have survived for three thousand years, I'm sure they will continue to do so."

Cloud's mouth opened for a moment but then snapped closed, his jaw bunched as it hardened, his face setting back into the same dark expression, like the black clouds of the typhoon.

"So what of Ranma Saotome, and his friend?" Brand asked, unable to keep the sneer from the last word.

"His name is Ryoga," Willow said in iron tones.

Brand at scowled at her but said nothing.

"Locke's student claims that they mean no harm to us," Stone grated. "Is this reliable?"

Locke nodded, and puffed on his pipe.

"Then we should do none to them," the bald man concluded. "Though it would be better if they were to leave Emei, and not return."

"I agree," Cloud grunted, casting a sidelong glance at his twin. "However it would be best if they were to leave immediately, and be watched. If what Locke suspects is true, then he is correct that Saotome should be watched, _very_ closely."

Locke and Cragg also concurred.

The flames in Brand's stomach flickered as he felt a desperate panic cling to him. They could not be banished, not yet. _Not until I've had my chance_, a furious voice said. His teeth ground on each other as he clenched his jaw; his voice wanted to speak, to give some sort of a reason why they had to stay, but his mind could not think of one. _Damn it, I have to work fast, _his brain was still working rapidly when he noticed that the old man was speaking.

"…he seems quite set on seeing Willow again."

_What?_ The roar almost erupted from his mouth with such force that it pained his throat as he reined it. He glanced at Willow whose eyes seemed rather distant, a small smile curving her lips. Why did she have to look so damn happy? The flickering flames erupted within him, and he barely fought them back as his skin began to crawl with prickling heat.

"So we're agreed," he said, the words tumbling from him. The others looked at him with small frowns, as if they could not remember who he was. Eventually Cloud sighed and nodded.

"Why in such a hurry, Brand?" Willow asked slowly, eyes narrowing as she glanced at him.

"Well, someone has to tell Blitz of our discussion." he shot back and then noticing the heat of his tone he pushed his lips into a small smirk and shrugged.

"I had wanted to spar with him anyway," he hoped his voice sounded casual. He had never been good at appearing calm; it was against his nature.

Willow snorted, "Thinking with your fists again," she muttered and turned away.

Cloud was staring at the shrine again; eyes fixed on the small building yet seeming lost in a void. In his hands had appeared a rosary of dark glass beads, each capturing the light as they swayed from his hand, sparkling as if tiny stars were captured in their spheres. His fingers toyed with one of the beads it back and forth with his thumb. After a moment he wrapped the whole length in a white-knuckled grip and stuffed the rosary back beneath his tunic, eyes regaining their dangerous flash.

"Brand's right," he growled. "This has gone on long enough. Locke send a message to your student to inform the strangers of their banishment, and have someone keep and eye on them."

Locke wrinkled eyes widened at Cloud's voice and Brand felt his own narrow as he frowned. That had almost been a command, he noted. Such a thing was not done in Emei, not among the eight masters.

After a moment he forgot it, turning on his heel and walking from the peak. Idly, he hoped his steps were steady, as his legs felt rather insubstantial beneath him. His blood seemed to sing in his veins, and he could hear his own breath grow ragged. He rolled his tongue about his mouth, a mouth that seemed strangely moist, like that of a starving man drawn by the scent of roasting meat.

Within his grasp we're real warriors, ones who had fought powerful opponents and grown stronger. They had beaten the bestial strength and styles of the Musk. Fighters of such calibre, that they had challenged the great works of his ancestors and matched themselves against the flames of Mount Phoenix's king. One who had defeated his sister, Master of the Winds with ease, and the other who had tried to seduce that same sister.

He realised he was drooling and wiped off his chin with the embroidered cuff of his coat. From his feet his could smell the acrid scent of burning grass.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Few people knew darkness, Kodachi mused as she sat in the shadows of her room. Most thought it simply an absence of illumination, space where the warmth and glow of light was blocked.

Kodachi knew it to be more; she knew that the darkness lived. It breathed, it moved, it thought, it had form and soul and it watched.

She knew the darkness in her room was watching her, even as she watched it. With the thick curtains pulled shut it swarmed and pulsated, its inky black tendrils writhing and distorting whatever it touched, making ordinary objects into nightmares. That is why people feared the dark, why everyone at some point in their lives felt terror in the shadows. In those times the shivers running down your spine really were the cold caress of the dark.

However, Kodachi no longer feared the dark. She had gradually become to know it, to befriend it. Now she knew its secrets. For in the dark were not nightmares but reality.

She had once heard a scientist say that the act of observation changed what was observed, altered it from what it was to what was seen. She now knew that was what light did. Light twisted things, polluted them, made them what ignorant people thought they were. It was in the dark that things were real, stripped and bare. In the cloak of darkness she could see the word's true form, and hear its true voice.

_Did you think it would be so easy, Rosebud?_

Kodachi looked down at the ribbon held loosely in her pale fingers, the rose fabric a dark magenta in the darkness. She caressed the soft silk and a ripple slid through its length, like a cat arching its back at its master's gentle touch.

_Truly good things do not come so easily, dear Rosebud, _the ribbon purred.

"She is a foul peasant," Kodachi hissed. "If her wicked coven-sister had not been there…"

_Ah, but she was,_ the ribbons smooth, dulcet voice broke in._ Peasants they may be, but their black arts are strong and evil, for they even overcome the might of your beloved knight. Their wicked arts destroyed his magnificence and now they have taken him._

Kodachi's hands balled around the ribbon, hard enough to turn her knuckles white were her skin not already ghostly pale. The points of her nails, painted the crimson of blood, dug into her palms, as did the sharp edge of her satin weapon.

She could feel the pain as the flesh broke, and it filled her with an almost delirious high greater than any potent narcotic.

"They will suffer," she rasped between her clenched teeth, spittle forming on her ruby lips. "For the sake of my beloved, they must."

_And so they shall, _the ribbon promised. _But it shall not come easily. Something _as_ wondrous as suffering does not come unless it is earned. _The silky fabric writhed in her hands, shuddering as if drawing breath. _You remember her suffering don't you, Rosebud? How rich and sweet it was, as you choked her? How when you wrapped me around her slim, pretty throat you could feel her pain? Her breath held by your strength, her pulse bound by my length, and slowly she began to fade. You could feel the life drain from her, couldn't you Rosebud. It slipped from her so slowly that you could taste it, and what a delicious elixir that was?_

"Yes," Kodachi bit out, her voice was low and husky, her breath caught in her throat as the recollection made her knees wobble and her shoulders tremble.

"Delicious," she whispered.

_There will be so much more for use to taste, Rosebud. Together we can make them suffer endlessly, make them weep and writhe with their succulent pain. It will not be easy, their evil is strong, especially the Amazon witch and her demon elder. However, ambrosia so sweet never is._

"How will we defeat them?" she asked the ribbon. "How shall we make them suffer?"

_Like the spider, dear Rosebud. Like the itsy bitsy spider. _

The ribbon trembled and coiled and Kodachi could have sworn that it was laughing.

"SHE'S A WHAT!"

Brand watched Blitz seethe. The blonde's once wild crest of spikes now stood straight and vertical like upthrust knife pints. His usually cool features were obliterated by the frenzied snarl on his face, sparks flashing in his blue eyes and nostrils flared as his breath sawed in an out through his clenched and quivering teeth. Bursts of foul language fell from his lips, vile obscenities blending with low mutterings of which Brand could only make the words, "queer "and "bent"

Brand's nose twitched as the scents around him changed, becoming the crisp and clean scent of ozone. Bangs and pops erupted from nothing as the air seemed to collapse and implode from the anger pouring from the lithe figure. Small bolts of electricity swarmed and danced in Blitz's aura winking into life then vanishing like blue-white flares.

Brand felt his lips curl into a small smirk. "I was thinking," he said lazily," that since these foreigners seem to have captured everyone's attention, we should see them for ourselves." He made himself shrug. "Just to see what the fuss is." He glanced at the younger man from the corners of his eyes. "You interested?

Blitz said nothing; he just grinned, a gesture that did not touch the lightning in his eyes.

**To be continued. **

AN- Yes it's been too long. My life has undergone some changes, I've moved house and am know working as an intern in a lab. Not sure how this will affect my writing, but hopefully it will only be for the best.

Thanks to Rob for pre-reading and all his help above and beyond the call of duty, Ryan for letting me bug him with questions , Larry F for hosting the fic, and you for reading.

**Glossary**

**Mongkol – **A ceremonial headband worn by Muay Thai fighters before a match, said to contain rolled up papers of prayers and good-luck spells.

**Wai Kru – **A ritual dance performed by Muay Thai fighter before a match and to their master's before commencing their training, which shows respect for their camp and teachers.

**Sanmon Zenkai Ha – **Temple gate opening blast (wave)****a technique of the Kumon style Kokyu-ken, modified and improved from the Saotome ryu Yamasen-ken by combining the Mouko Kaimon Ha, and Gaimon Tetsusen Shi techniques.

**Kunai- **Ninja weapon that can either be thrown or used like a dagger in close combat. A sharp dirk with a thin, triangular blade and often a metal ring on the pommel of its handle so that it can be spun or used with a rope.


	5. The Flames of Fate

_**Honour And Pride**_

By Beer-Monster

Book II: The Eight Phases

**Chapter Five**

**The Flames of Fate**

The rubber seals smacked wetly as Shigurei pushed the door open, one hand pressed flat against the cold steel panel. A gust of icy air blasted into his face, heavy with the bitter, sterile scent of antibiotic cleansers as he stepped into the morgue. The room was dark; the fluorescent lights dimmed to a low glow one tube flickering with a high frequency amidst the ceiling panels. It was as dull and lifeless as its guest's demanded, white walls and floor, the only colour coming from the crisp clean cloths that lay over the corpses on the cold slabs. The furniture was all shining, stainless steel, the observation tables, the cabinets and shelves, the gleaming blades of the autopsy tools all dead and artificial, and motor of the cooling system whined like a low dirge.

Hearing the clicking of heels echoing through the room, Shigurei moved towards them, buttoning his green lab coat closed over his dark pullover. The room branched into an L-shape, a door left ajar by the corner revealing part of a comfortable office. A plush leather office chair sat empty, facing at a haphazard angle away from the computer screen where a digital cat pranced and mewed across a field of pixels. It was a stark change from the inhuman room around him, but then that was people did, left pieces of their souls in their room,

It was what made them human.

He passed the office, rubbing at his eyes as a wave of early morning fatigue washed over him. Ahead he watched Mizuki move around the far observation table, bent over a prone corpse as she poked at its still form with latex covered fingers, speaking softly into a small Dictaphone held by her lips. She glanced up at him as he drew closer and turned the recorder off with a loud click.

"Good morning, Shigurei," she said.

"Morning," he tried to reply, his voice muffled by the yawn that fought it way up from his lungs.

Mizuki quirked an eyebrow behind her spectacles; "Not a morning person are we?"

Shigurei blinked and lowered his hand from where it covered his mouth. "Why do you think I work the graveyard shift?" he muttered dryly. "So what made you drag me from my warm bed?"

"I've got some more info on your serial killing."

Shigurei frowned, "What serial killing, there's only been one killing?" As soon as he asked the question, he wanted to snatch it back from the air knowing what her response would be.

Mizuki's full red lips curved into a knowing smirk, as she adjusted her glasses.

"Not anymore," she sing-songed. She patted the body that lay limp on the table between them, the rubber of her gloves making a slapping noise as they met the pallid skin over the corpse's once firm abdominal muscles. Around the man's navel the dead flesh was stained with red and black inks, the image of a growling oni dressed in a ragged and torn kimono and hefting a blood-red katana. "This unlucky fellow is – was

Shinji Kitagawa."

"Kitagawa," Shigurei repeated softly, brow furrowing. He glanced back at the tattoo, noticing that the oni's face was deformed by a long slash that scored the corpse's flank. The details snapped together in his head and he felt his eyes widen, "Of the Kitagawa family?"

"Ding ding, we have a winner," she said with a wide grin. "Apparently Shinji here was the nephew of Mitsuomi Kitagawa, the benevolent –if the yakuza can be called that- head of the Kitagawa family."

"Whoever did this must be either very brave or suicidal, unless it was a rival gang."

Mizuki shrugged, "That would make sense. However judging by the extent and manner of the victim's wounds I would guess that whoever roughed up Shinji were also the ones who derailed your 'Mr Tank,' which is why I called you."

"Well Detective Izumi did say that Tesuo Matsuhara had a bad reputation with the yakuza, and so it is possible that they are connected." Shigurei said, wiggling his hands into his own pair of white gloves.

"Well the actual cause of death is different, but like the earlier victim this guy has suffered a rather severe beating." She gestured at the man's face, it was pale skinned and gaunt with angular cheekbones, however the several angry purple bruises lined the right half of the face. The once thin noise was now a mangled mess, the flesh seemed plastered across the centre of face and the bone with the bone flattened. "On the face he has some harsh bruising and lacerations, a noise broken upwards from the philtrum and a dislocated mandible." Now that Shigurei looked closer he could see the asymmetry of the face; the jaw protruded to the left, the chin lop-sided and the lips distorted by the injury. Mizuki's hand passed across his field of view as she pried back the dead man's eyelid with a latex-covered thumb, a glassy and pale grey eye stared vacantly upwards, the iris swimming in a pink film. "The bloodshot eyes suggest internal haemorrhaging caused by a powerful blow to the head."

She leaned across the corpse and gingerly lifted the arm closest to Shigurei, holding the limb as if handling delicate porcelain. Shigurei could see why, the entire joint of the elbow had been wretched apart, the bones swaying limply, part of one protruding from a hole in the flesh along with several broken tendons. "Like Tesuo, this guy's arm has been snapped, as has his ankle. However there are a few defensive wounds on his right hand which means that unlike 'the Tank' he was able to get a few digs in himself."

Shigurei glanced at Shinji's hand and noted the cuts that covered the three lower knuckles. However he also saw that the line of the fist had been warped, the middle and third knuckles pushed from alignment. "It's broken," he said.

Mizuki nodded, "Whatever he hit it was hard, I pulled some fragments from here but I'm waiting for them to get done at the scene so I can compare. However my guess would be that he missed and hit a wall."

"What about these calluses?" Shigurei asked, tracing his finger over several ridges of hardened skin present beneath the cuts across his knuckles. Mizuki blinked and leant leaned closer, pushing her spectacles further on her nose as she frowned,

"Didn't notice those," she admitted. "They look old though, probably a sports injury." She leant back and flicked a bang of bright yellow hair from where it dangled over her eyes, loose from the queue where she had bound the rest of her long blonde locks. "It's probably nothing," she said with a sniff.

"Or it could be everything," Shigurei replied with a frown.

"You watch far too many of those Sherlock Holmes specials, Shigurei," Mizuki said with a sigh.

"I don't have a TV," he replied absently, as he ran his eyes over the other bruises and cuts that covered the corpse, running his eyes along the gash that ran from the red and black oni and across the bruised and, he guessed ,broken ribs.

"Okay, so you're just plain weird," she muttered and followed his gaze to the wound. "It looked like a wound from a sword or machete, however the blade must have been much thicker. Judging by the angle of the cut and the damage to the ribs underneath I would say it was used at close range, not so much a slice as a smash with something sharp which then cut on withdrawal. Whatever the weapon, its wielder is also our murderer." She pointed a finger at the man's neck.

A large rend had torn Shinji's collarbone midway across the shoulder. The flash had been parted in a thin wedge; a flap of skin hanging from one side, the splintered end of the bone was visible through the wound above the cut muscular tissue. Mizuki ran a gloved finger along the deep mark. "This is what killed him," she pronounced. "A very strong downward strike, like an axe chop, severed several arteries but more importantly snapped the clavicle quite violently. The blow drove one end of the bone down at a sharp angle where it punctured the victim's left lung. He then drowned on his own blood.

"Nasty," Shigurei said as his brows knit. "I take it then, it wasn't an axe?"

"I can find no traces of any metal in this or any other wound. I would expect as least a few flakes, especially from where the weapon smashed through the clavicle." Mizuki shrugged as she adjusted the buttons of her lab coat. "If it was an axe, it was a very good one," she added.

"Any strange stab wounds like the other victim?" he asked scanning his eyes over the corpse.

"No, but on the subject I finished Tetsuo's autopsy late last night." Mizuki wove her way around the table and marched across the morgue, heels clicking loudly against the hard floor. Shigurei followed pulling his gloves off as he watched the coroner do the same, lips twisting as the clammy rubber slid across his skin. "As I thought, it was the blow to the back of the head that killed him. However he would have died anyway as the strange stab wound intersected his abdominal aorta. Combined with his other wounds, he would have probably bled to death in about eight more minutes. No sign of metal or any other fragments found in any of his injuries, just like Shinji." She sighed loudly and her eyes were hidden behind her bangs as her head bowed.

She jerked upright a second later, and moved to where a large screen was poised on the wall, a sheet of murky plastic set in a steel frame. "I did take some X-rays of his damaged joints though," she said as she slapped her head against a button on the screens flank. The was a small pop and the screen flared to life, bright white light pouring from within and illuminating the hazy images of bones printed on glossy black film.

Mizuki pointed at the photo on the far left, the long translucent shapes forming what Shigurei recognised as a knee joint, yet instead of standing straight the join between the femur and the tibia was jarred inwards at an obtuse angle. The knee cap protruded two fingers apart from the bones, the smaller of which was snapped into sharp ended splinters while a dark crack wound across the larger like a termite trail.

"As you can see the patella has been displaced by a powerful blow at a sharp downwards angle from the outside to the inside of the leg" She pointed ran her finger along the ghostly prints of the misplaced bones. "My guess would be that someone either stamped or struck his leg after he was forced to the ground."

Shigurei's lips pursed and he shook his head, running the memories of the crime scene back in his head like a hazy silent movie, the prone corpse and dark alley flashing through his mind in fast forward. "His leg was broken when he was slammed into the dumpster and stabbed," the image of folded metal, blood welling in the crease blazed past his mind's eye. "If they already had him pinned, why drag him up just to stab him?"

Mizuki snorted, "This is why you're the investigator and I just pick up the dead bits, Shigurei," she said with a glare that was belied by the curving smirk of her lips. She turned back to the screen gesturing towards the second photo with a wave of her hand. "This is of Tetsuo's right shoulder, notice the…Shigurei?"

Shigurei's gloves fell from his hand, hitting the floor with a soft slap that barely registered. He stepped forwards and leant closer to the screen, squinting his eyes against the harsh glow from the light box. His nose was now a fingers length from the glossy surface of the film, his brow furrowing as he focussed on the fuzzy picture of arm pushed forwards from the socket of the shoulder. "Curious," he said on a soft breath.

"Jinkies, Velma, have we found a clue?" Mizuki said dryly, leaning with her elbow propped against the wall.

"One of these days, you'll do that and I won't tell you anything." Shigurei grunted.

Mizuki grinned widely and one of her shadowed eyes flashed in a wink. "One day but not today, right?"

Shigurei sighed and rolled his eyes. "I've seen this kind of injury before," he said, tapping the photo with his index finger, the thunk of the plastic screen punctuating his words. "Back at university," he added with a moment's thought.

"Strict on students turning their paper's in on time were they?"

"Well yes, but I'm referring to something that happened while I was part of the Aikido club."

Mizuki blinked, "Aikido? I never had you down as the martial arts type, Shigurei."

"I only took it for the first three years, until the demands of my classes became too much," he remarked with a shrug, pulling away from the screen and rubbing at his eyes to remove the multi-coloured blots that danced through his vision.

"It was in my third year, about half way through the first semester. We were practising the _Shiho Nage_, a manoeuvre that uses the limited axis of motion of the shoulder to subdue the enemy and send him to the ground. I remember practising with a higher grade. As he was helping me with some of the finer points of the move, a sudden cry rang through the dojo. The tatami had slipped beneath the feet of another student as he applied the technique and caused him to loose his balance and stumble. The sudden motion made him pop his partner's shoulder out of place." Shigurei paused, lost in the recalled smells and sounds of the dojo, remember how the young lad had kicked and screamed at the pain, bare heels thudding against the mats.

"Since I was the only student whose course was in any way related to medicine, Sensei Ohta asked me to accompany the boy to the hospital, where I managed to get a look at his X-rays."

He tapped the screen once again, this time running his finger across the blurred ball of the ulna. "This is the same kind of injury, but much more severe, much more violent, and yet…" he felt his eyes narrow beneath his furrowed brows, "…much more precise. The angle of the wound, the position to which he displaced the joint. Whoever did this wanted to do this sort of damage, and knew exactly how to do it."

"So what are you saying, Shigurei? One of our killers is a martial artist?"

The crime scene unfolded in his head once again, sliding through his memory as he recalled his own movements, spraying a stream of luminol in his path. Then in a flash of mental light he was at the end of the alley, reaching an inquisitive hand to lightly touch the brick wall, only to have it crumble and fall at the slightest pressure. The sound of his own voice echoed like a bad recording.

"_If it wasn't impossible, I would say that this man was thrown clean across this alley."_

_Shiho nage. Four corner throw._

"No, Mizuki, I'm saying that _the _killer was a martial artist," _and a very dangerous one_, he added silently.

A shrill beeping pierced the film of silence that had condensed over the morgue in the wake of his words. He grabbed at his phone and flipped the cover, pressing the button and not looking at the tiny screen until he had brought it to his eyes. He saw the name Izumi and instantly jabbed his thumb at the OK button.

Shigurei

Got another for you.

Some people like to

keep us busy. Izumi

-

"Ranma's not here anymore, Akane," Ukyo said in that quaint, but slightly condescending tone of friendly advice that Akane found so hard to swallow, even forgoing the pain of her throat.

"Who cares," she growled, pain rippling through her neck as the muscles tensed beneath rare skin. "This is probably his fault."

"Yeah, Akane" Ukyo said dryly. "Ranma arranged for Kodachi to go nuts and try to kill you. Sounds like his style. I bet he even saved your life all those times just to lull you into a false sense of security." As the sarcasm slipped from her tone, the chef's voice began to sound hollow.

It made sense, a small part of Akane acknowledged briefly before the greater parts of her mind crushed it, choosing to cling to her indignant rage. She needed the anger around her like a suit of armour, making sense would get in the way.

They walked in silence, moving from the street that wound pashed the canal into the maze of narrow paths and alleys while Akane seethed quietly with her fist quivering at her sides. Ukyo had fallen into the same rut that had consumed her in the recent weeks; the grace had vanished from her making her steps stiff and wooden as she walked at Akane's side. The chef's arms were folded tightly across her chest as if she were hugging herself and she gazed at her feet as she walked, eyes hidden behind a veil of chestnut locks. The only sound from the other girl was the metallic beating of her battle spatula against her back, the giant pole-arm swaying in its holster.

A mottled ginger tabby cat skittered across their path as they walked in the shadows of the Tendo family compounds wall. A metallic rattling made Akane's gaze dart up to glance ahead where her oldest sister was throwing a hefty garbage bag into a metal trash can, splinters of broken wood poking through the thin plastic. Covering the trash with a thin lid Kasumi glanced up, the kindly smile forming on her lips lighting up her face.

"Hello, Akane, and Ukyo, so nice to see you again, it's been some time," the older girl greeted them.

"Hi, Kasumi," Ukyo said slowly, her smile thin and crooked.

Kasumi began speaking cordially to the chef, but Akane could not understand her sister's words. The sounds around her were slurred and distorted, as if the noise had slowed to a smeared blur of sounds. Then she watched as Kasumi twisted and rippled. The world became liquid, a spiralling stream of deformed images and fluid shapes, like bubbles of colour caught in a whirlpool. She was moving yet staying still, spinning vertically but horizontally about every axis. Gravity seemed to pull at her from all sides, then her vision was filled with grey as her sister and the dojo dropped away like pictures from the bottom of a frame. The clouds danced rapidly overhead.

Suddenly the world snapped back into focus, as if a pane of tinted glass had fallen away and allowed her to see without the ripples and bending of the light. She was staring at the sky, awash with dark clouds. The sloped top of the Tendo wall was a pale line at the bottom of her vision. Faces appeared, Kasumi looking down at her as if she were a giant, her eyes wide with her fingers touching her mouth. Ukyo was there too, looming over her, a worried frown knotting her brow.

"Akane," Kasumi said, the warmth of her voice replaced by a harsh gasp. "Akane, are you all right?"

"Hey, sugar, say something."

Akane noticed that the chef's face seemed very close, too close. She registered something warm pressing into her side, and two strong arms wrapped beneath her; one around her shoulders and one hugging her waist cradling her form on her unsteady legs.

"I'm fine," she snapped, nudging the taller girl back with her elbow and shrugging out of Ukyo's grip, stumbling to the side as she caught her balance. Ukyo scowled, lips compressing to a tight line.

"Are you sure, Akane?" Kasumi asked, laying her hand on Akane's forehead softly. "I'll give Doctor Saeba a call," she turned back to the house, but Akane lunged, almost falling on her face, and grabbed her sister's shoulder.

"No, I'm okay," she yelled.

"Akane," Ukyo cried, "that psycho almost killed you."

Kasumi's shoulder quivered under her hand as the older woman inhaled a loud gasp of air, her eyes flying wide open. Akane shot the chef a dark look as if willing fire to blast from her eyes, her free hand clenching as her teeth ground. Ukyo stared back calmly, arms folded beneath her breasts and saying nothing.

"Who tried to hurt you, Akane, are you sure you're okay?" Kasumi asked, her eyes darting across Akane's form, she inhaled sharply as her gaze passed over her sister's neck.

"I'm fine," Akane growled. Then she closed her eyes, and took a deep breath, her throat stung as air rushed in through the sore pipe and as she released it with a shudder. She forced herself to let go of her anger; it was like extracting a sweet from the fist of a greedy child, but slowly it dissipated.

"Really, Kasumi, I'm okay," she said in a calmer tone. "I'm a bit dizzy but I just need to sit down."

"Oh of course, how silly of me." Kasumi said, taking Akane's hand she pulled her towards the house. "Let's get you inside and I'll make some hot tea." With a gentle yet insistent pull the elder Tendo led her sister into her home. Akane wiggled her fingers in Kasumi's hand, noticing how tightly the older woman held her. The muscles on Kasumi's forearm bunched with a strong tension that was hardly felt in the gentle grip. She scowled as she realised that the extra effort was for the same reason that Ukyo ghosted behind her closely, her arms hovering in front of her like a fielder waiting for the ball to be knocked his way. Waiting to catch her when she fell.

She felt her nails break the skin of her palms as she clenched her fist tighter.

-

The sound of voices, one of them clearly Akane's, told Nabiki that her youngest sister had returned. She kept her eyes down, running her gaze across the neat line of text in the speech bubble, stuffing down a small flutter as Kensuke declared his love for Yuki as a shadowed pool of cross-hatched ink simulated the effect of moonlight playing across his ridiculously exaggerated 'pretty boy' profile.

She blew her brown hair from her eyes with an upward sigh and shuffled herself on the floor. Sometimes she wondered why she read these girly manga, the plots and the characters were always the same, the sweet words always contained the same promises. All that ever changed was the hair and the location, sometimes the girl had long waves or short tousles; sometimes the site a bridge at sunset, sometimes a park at moonlight- anywhere, so long as there was shadows to shimmer across the characters.

_Profit, _she told herself with a small shrug. Furinkan high school was a boiling soup of hormones, where the loving and loathing of the students churned the entire campus into a frenzy. Love was always in the air at school, and was often being fought over. The girls of Furinkan swooned over the many battle that were fought for the attentions and affections of a few 'lucky' individuals. They too, longed to be made to feel special and yearned for grandiose, manga-style gestures of romance. And if you knew how to set up such gestures, you could earn a pretty penny.

Of course, that gold mine had been drying up since Ranma had departed, the boys and girls returning to the more traditional methods of conversation and secret smiles. _And yet you are still reading, _a voice said from within. Nabiki scowled and turned her attention to the voices drifting through the room.

"What took you so long, girl?" Genma's gruff voice burst in sternly. "I had hoped to do some training before dinner, but apparently my student would rather shirk her lesson."

Nabiki rolled her eyes. Uncle Saotome seemed to be taking the training stuff pretty seriously. Something that would normally have surprised Nabiki as she had doubted Genma's ability to be concerned about anything that did not relate directly to his stomach. However, with his wife around, virtually everything could be part of saving his belly.

"Cram it up your furry butt, Mr Saotome."

_That's Ukyo's voice. _Nabiki realised, forcing her eyes to stay upon the pages of her manga, frowning as she listened closer.

"Oh, Ukyo, I didn't notice you there." Soun said, his flat voice clashing with the politeness of his words. "What brings you here?"

"That is a good question, Soun?" Nodoka Saotome said as came down the hallway. Her steps small and precise from the restrictive binding of her pale green kimono, yet somehow they seemed to resound with the pride of a marching army. Nabiki saw a bowl of corn chips appear beside her from her peripheral vision, but did not take her eyes from her comic, instead letting her legs kick the air to emphasise her disinterested role.

"Miss Kuonji, as I'm sure you are aware, my son is not here right now and we don't expect him back soon." Her voice dropped for a brief moment, as if suddenly burdened by a great weight, but she cleared her throat and continued swiftly but still as poised as before. "Therefore I am at a loss to see why you are here."

"If that's so then why, Mrs Saotome, are you still carrying that sword. Your son is not around for you to decapitate," Ukyo hissed.

Nabiki winced internally as the venom in Ukyo's tone and she risked a darting glance from the corner of her eyes. Nobody noticed as all their attention was fixed on the two women who glared at each other, Nodoka's back jerking straight as if struck by lighting and her hands balled into fists against her lap.

Nabiki flicked her eyes back to the printed pages that lay open on the floor, the words and pictures blurring as her brows knit, her gaze passing straight through the comic and into the beyond.

Ukyo and Nodoka seemed ready to kill each other, a development not in her predictions. Her complex simulations and predictions of life in Nerima, all those possible events and outcomes like the numbers on a roulette wheel had not accounted for this. She had expected this of Shampoo, the Amazon culture and attitudes were to contrary too the prim matriarch of the Saotome family, but not of Ukyo. She chewed on her lip and cursed the butterfly effect.

She was aware of the argument the two had whilst Ranma had been recovering, yet harsh words and glares were exchanged every hour in Nerima and then forgotten. After all, Nodoka was the mother of the chef's beloved Ranchan and –to her at least- a future in-law. Nodoka had also been ecstatic to spend time with one of her 'manly son's' cadre of admirers. Now the two glared at each otherlike hungry, female cats locked in the same cage.

Her fingers rapping a tuneless staccato against the tatami as her jaw tightened, Nabiki resigned her self to another night of frustrated musings. She thought of the bills and repairs of the Tendo home, and how that walkman had she seemed to sing to her from the store window. This building was held by bricks and mortar; but also by a tangled web or love and hate, emotional threads of the complex weave of relationship in this town. This news would leave ripples in the pattern, and much depended on her being able to stay two steps ahead of the fates' weavings.

"Akane," Nodoka cried. "What happened to your neck?"

Those words were like gunshot, the heads' of the two fathers shooting up from their game board like startled birds. There was a rustle of papers as Nabiki tossed her comic aside and scrabbled to her knees, casting her pretence aside as her ears locked on the fearful quiver hidden beneath Nodoka's outburst. The older woman had stood up in a flash.

Now, she was in front of Akane and appraising the wounds so fast that it seemed like she had not even moved but had simply appeared in another place. Gentle fingers touched Akane's chin and tilted her face up as Nodoka peered at the sore flesh covering her throat, her bottom lip clamped between her front teeth.

Nabiki moved so that she could peer over the auburn haired woman's shoulder, clamping her mouth tightly to prevent her jaw shuddering as she saw the bands of swollen flesh that coiled around her sister's neck.

Nodoka trailed a gentle touch across the reddened skin before poking at it probingly. Akane winced in response.

The older woman staggered to the side with a small squeak as her father shouldered her out of the way seizing on his daughters shoulders with a scream of "Oh, Akane."

Tears ran in clear streams down his tanned cheeks like a waterfall over the cracked stone of a mountain. His bent his legs slightly, lowering his height until he could peer upward at the red stripes under her chin. "Oh, my little girl," he whispered brokenly.

He scooped Akane up and crushed her to his slender frame until Nabiki could hear the air whoosh out of her sister's chest, and still her father clutched her tighter, lifting her from the ground and spinning her around in a flurry before he rounded upon the young chef.

"Did you do this to my daughter?" he roared at the girl, who started in shock.

Nabiki winced at Soun's outcry. _Not now, you idiot, _she cursed silently.

"Wha…wha…" Ukyo stammered.

"Did you try to harm my baby," he spat again.

"Knock it off, Daddy," she let her cool voice sweep through the room and her father's rage like the rush of a winter wind. She stood stiffly, arms folded beneath her breasts imperiously as she frowned with almost maternal disapproval at her father, the same pose she remembered her mother using when she had admonished her family. A pang struck through her gut, but she forced it aside and towards Ukyo.

"I know that Ukyo is as stupid and thick-headed as anyone else obsessed with Ranma Saotome," she said, ignoring the glare the other girl shot her, "but even she is not so stupid as to come to your home if she had attempted to kill your daughter."

Soun blinked and he stood up straight, his posture relaxing. He studied the treaded surface of the tatami mats as he scratched at the corner of his moustache with one finger. "You have a point," he said after a while.

"Damn right, she has a point," Ukyo snapped. "I'm the one who saved your precious Akane's butt."

Nabiki recognised the truth of that statement as Akane's face twisted under its lash. Her sister hid behind her twilight blue bangs as her head drooped and shoulder slumped, as if she were trying to shrink into herself.

Her father lifted clasped hand's towards the okonomiyaki chef as tears streamed down his cheeks. "Thank you, thank you," he wept

"Is this true, Akane?" Nodoka asked; her tone larded with scepticism.

She saw her sister's white-knuckled fists twitch at her sides and knew that this latest event was making Akane's attitude curdle like sour milk.

"Kind of," the girl finally murmured.

A sour grimace flickered across Ukyo's face at Akane's sullen response but she said nothing as Soun rushed across and grasped her hands, frenzied words of gratitude pouring from him like the tears on his face.

Kasumi cleared her throat quietly, but it was like a clap of thunder that stopped the Tendo patriarch's weeping instantly.

"I think we're forgetting what's important," she said sweetly, but with steel hidden beneath the sugar of her tone.

"I agree," Genma said with a stiff nod. "If it was not Ukyo, then who did attack you, Akane? I had not expected the Amazon to wait this long, before acting."

Nabiki's lips tightened but she was not surprised. The plump man was being as insensitive as ever, but she could not begrudge him that, at least he was thinking.

Ukyo snorted, "I would not put anything past that hussy and her Great-Grandmother." She inhaled deeply through her nose and her lips twisted, as if some foul taste had risen in her throat. "However, as much as I can't believe I'm saying this, Shampoo did not attack Akane."

"Obviously not," Nabiki sniffed, knocking the ridiculous accusation aside with a dismissive flick of her wrist. "Shampoo rarely acts without Cologne's approval and this just isn't the Old Gal's style." Ukyo sniffed sharply, but Nabiki just shrugged. "Besides," she continued, "we all know that if Shampoo had wanted Akane dead we would already be planning the funeral."

Kasumi and Nodoka gasped in stereo, and Soun barked her name though his chin trembled as his eyes continued to fill with wet tears.

"Glad to know my own sister has such confidence in me," Akane hissed, her nails bit into her palms but she did not wince. "Is this a spontaneous guess, or have you been running this poll for a while?"

Nabiki fought the urge to sigh and kept her mask tight as she returned her sister's glare coolly. _The truth hurts. Deal with it, little sister. _Her eyes widened as Akane took a furious step closer, heel thudding upon the floor. She relaxed when the advance wavered, Akane pausing mid-step, but the fires in her eyes burning all the brighter.

"Don't hold back, Nabiki, would you also like to insult my cooking and call me a macho chick too?" she growled. " I noticed how you never batted an eyelash when you mentioned my funeral. Why not? Didn't you realise you would have to pay for it?"

"Akane," she heard Nodoka say sharply.

Nabiki inhaled deeply, her teeth grinding together at her sister's barbed words, but she forced herself calm. _That was harsh. She must be mad. Anger suits you better, Akane. If you're angry you can't be scared and you need that strength. _The word's were true, but she knew also knew that though fury might give her sister strength, it would keep also her from it. _I'll deal with that later, _she told herself again with a small frown, _there's no time now. _

"Akane, remember yourself," Genma snapped, breaking the tense silence that clung to the air around the two sisters. His eyes were hidden behind the glare on his spectacles but the sudden tension in her posture showed Akane could feel the heat of his gaze.

"The true martial artist accepts her limits so that she might surpass them someday," he said in that hushed voice she had heard him use when he and Akane were training in the dojo.

"Saotome!" her father said firmly.

"Pfft!" Ukyo spat. "Quit trying to sound sagacious, old man. You're not fooling anyone."

Normally Nabiki would be inclined to agree, but the martial artist's words were too close to her own thoughts. She would have to keep a closer eye on Genma. Something strange seemed to be happening within that lethargic exterior, and she did not need any more ripples in her pond.

Genma frowned and muttered something about respect whilst his wife glared at the chef with renewed animosity

"Excuse me," Kasumi said softly, the tiniest of frowns barely curved the oldest Tendo sister's lips however combined with her polite, but firm tone it commanded attention like the words of a god. "I had thought that perhaps letting Akane sit down, recover and have a cup of tea might be more important than this heated discussion."

There was no outwards sign of the kind woman's disappointment, her words were polite and deferring and a smile soon found it way back to her lips. However, Nabiki could feel it in the air, in her sister's aura, in the bricks and wood of the room, as if the house itself resonated its mistress' sentiments.

The conversation ended, her father stood and ushered Akane to her customary place at the table. Ukyo was invited to sit next to her, where Ranma had always been, the other girl seemed to know this as her expression crumpled and rebuilt itself in a flicker as she sat down. The smaller table and the shogi board were packed away; the piece scattered and then gathered again in Genma's rush. Tea was brewed and served in small, white cups; filling the room with sweet smelling steam. Akane seemed to have locked herself in silence, but was drawn to speak as soon as Ukyo said:

"It was Kodachi."

Akane sighed and threw out the story in a simple statement like a press address. Who, what, where and how; she kept to the basics, rushing through the tale like it was a race that she was determined to win, or a battle she was determined to flee.

She did not get her wish, as Genma Saotome was a merciless inquisitor. He prodded, poked and probed her with questions, bent on extracting all details and forcing her to relive the event. What angle had Kodachi attacked from? Did she announce herself first or just attacked? Did she think the razor-rimmed gymnastic hoop had been intended to kill her? Where has she concealed the tear gas? On and on, he kept asking questions in that same flat tone whilst her father wept, Nodoka and Kasumi gasped and Ukyo listened silently fist clenched and her jaw tight. Nabiki said nothing, sculpting a mask of ice with familiar ease to cover the churning of her belly as her stomach tied itself in knots at Akane's telling.

It was a small relief when Ukyo took over the narrative.

"I'd just changed into my work clothes and come down to open the restaurant," Ukyo said, pausing to raise her cup to her lips. "When I got to the kitchen I saw Konatsu, and knew something was wrong."

"Why, what was wrong with him?" Akane asked.

Ukyo blinked, "Nothing was wrong with him, it's just rare that I see him, he usually skulks about in his hush-hush ninja way. It helps against the competition, with Shampoo's chopstick balancing act and Mousse pulling tables from his sleeves, having the plates vanish with no signs of the waitress is quite a trick."

"Who is this Konatsu gentleman, Miss Kuonji?" Nodoka asked with her brow knitted. "The only other worker I've seen at your restaurant is that polite, well-mannered waitress."

"That is Konatsu, Auntie," Kasumi said as she reached over to gather the tea pot and refill her father's cup to the brim, he smiled his thanks absently.

"He's the first male Konoichi," Nabiki clarified in a dry voice, it was a typically stupid concept.

"He's a little confused, you might say," Ukyo said with a small smile.

"You mean he…he…" Nodoka trailed off as she scowled, her face creasing as if she had eaten something rotten. She gave herself a sudden shake. "How awful," she said after a moment, disgust dripped from her tone. "There is something just so unseemly about cross-dressing," she added almost absently never lifting her eyes from the green depths in her cup. Ukyo flinched.

"Are he and Ranma friends?" Nodoka inquired.

"Not really," Nabiki replied and, after a moments thought, shrugged. "They exchange pleasantries when they see each other, but never more than that. However since most of Ranma's male friends also want to kill him, and considering Konatsu's skill at ninjitsu, that's probably a good thing."

"He's that good?" the auburn haired woman asked.

Genma nodded, "Very good." He jerked as if he heard his own words. "For a ninja," he added gruffly.

"That's why he sniffed out that psycho's little dwarf, Sasuke," Ukyo said folded her arms across her breasts as her shoulders squared.

Akane grunted her agreement, "I used to think the guy was pretty sneaky, an irritating pervert, but sneaky. Then I met Konatsu."

Ukyo lips curled into a smirk. "Yeah, little-miss rich bitch didn't take that into account. I guess she expected we plebeians couldn't have ninjas of our own. But Konatsu sniffed the rat out, and made him tell all." The chef trailed off staring at the table as she tucked a stray lock of chestnut hair behind her ear, and for a moment Nabiki thought she saw the other girls' shoulder shudder

"What aren't you telling us, Ukyo?" Nabiki asked levelly.

Ukyo squirmed where she sat under the older girl's sudden and unwavering attention. Finally, she sighed and shrugged. "It's nothing really, it's just I've never seen Konatsu like that before. It was unsettling. When I came down I saw Konatsu looming, that's all I can call it, over the little freak asking him what he was doing here."

"So what did he do, threaten Sasuke or something?" Akane said with a bemused frown.

"No, that's what's weird. Konatsu was asking the questions using the same polite words, he even said please. But it wasn't what he said, but how he said it. Something about the words was….off."

"Off?" Nabiki repeated in a deadpan tone. _That could mean a million different things, you idiot, _she berated silently.

"I don't know what else to say," Ukyo snapped back, before exhaling into a slump. "I know Konatsu, he's worked with me week after week of nearly a year. There is something about the way he talks, something that makes be both annoyed and sorry for him. His words, his pronunciation, voice, they're all like some sort of verbal doormat. Something that cheerfully says, "Welcome," while at the same time inviting to you walk all over him.

"When he spoke to Sasuke, something was different. It was the same words and friendly phrases, but there was an edge to them; something guarded and dangerous. Like the welcome mat was still there but the door was bolted shut and the doormat had been replaced by barbed wire. It got worse as he asked Sasuke the same question over and over, each repetition his voice slipped a little and he would flick at the point of his kunai."

"Kunai?" Akane gasped.

"Yeah, I thought that was odd too." Ukyo agreed with a nod. "I had thought that he had gotten rid of all his ninja weapons."

"Such interesting people you associate with, Miss Kuonji," Nodoka said in a frosted voice. "That boy must come in useful, after all ninja's are known to be quite proficient at torture. It must have been easy for him to 'extract' Miss Kuno's plans from her servant."

Ukyo slammed the cup down with enough force to make the table judder. "It's not like that," she growled. "First of all, ninja's were never involved with torture that's just another myth for samurai families who liked to act as if they were too honourable to hire an assassin's service, or steal a girl's dowry." The last words came out in a acidic hiss."

"How dare you?" Nodoka spat, the whitened knuckles on her fists standing bright against the dark, blue material covering her sword.

Ukyo carried on regardless.

"Secondly, Sasuke practically fell over himself to tell us. He said he hated what Kodachi had planned but could not do anything about it. The psycho has him terrified; he was already bruised like a rotten peach before without us even touching him."

"You think she beat her own servant?" Kasumi gasped.

Ukyo nodded grimly, "Sasuke said she's been in a rage ever since he told her that Ranchan was gone, and that he had been the first person she took it out on. "

She fixed Akane with a stern gaze from the corners of her eyes. "She blames us, Akane. Me, you, Shampoo, all three of us. Claims that we banded together to banish Ranchan with dark magic, because we realised that he would never betray her love."

"That's ridiculous," Akane spluttered.

"She's a Kuno remember," Nabiki reminded her with a tired sigh.

"And to think, I thought she was slightly less deluded than her brother," Ukyo griped. "She thinks the two of us would pair up with that Chinese bimbo. Apparently Shampoo is currently out delivering several steaming bowls of ramen to nobody all over town."

"She prank called the Nekohanten, placing some fake orders?" Nabiki said flatly, her eyes hooded as she raised one eyebrow. "Not exactly the diabolical act of vengeance, I would expect from a crazed martial artist. Don't you guys usually go for less subtlety and more property damage?"

A scowl broke across the faces of the assembled martial artists and Nodoka rolled her eyes. Nabiki ignored them, sipping at her cup to cover a small smile.

"It was a diversion to get at Akane," Ukyo said gravely. "Shampoo was sent on a wild noodle chase, while Sasuke was sent to spy on me and distract me if necessary. Of course, the pompous lunatic did not expect us commoners to have better ninjas that the 'nobility', so that didn't work. However, from what her little minion told Konatsu, it's you she hates most, Akane. She might have waited for us two, but you she wanted dead as quickly and unpleasantly as possible."

"So what else is new," Akane growled, but Nabiki could see her hand trembling around her cup, sending green ripples running across the steaming tea.

"This can not be allowed," Soun roared. "Not to my baby girl. We must inform the police at once."

"Daddy," Akane snapped, she scowled as she saw Kasumi and Nodoka nod in agreement to his statement.

"Sure, daddy, lets call the police." Nabiki drawled, stifling the urge to slap her forehead and settled for rolling her eyes in a slow circle. "It wouldn't do us any good but it would be nice to give them an opportunity to fill their pockets?"

"What are you implying, Nabiki?" Nodoka asked with an arched brow.

"Surely you don't mean that the police would take bribes to ignore this." Kasumi asked with a small frown. "Kodachi is obviously dangerous and in needs of help."

Nabiki shrugged. "So are most people in this town," she glanced sidelong at Ukyo who snorted indignantly, eyes narrowing. "However Kodachi has somewhat of an advantage as she is very, _very_ rich."

"But surely they are honourable men," Nodoka protested. From the corner of her eyes she watched Genma shuffle on his futon, tugging at the collar of his gi with one crooked finger.

"Auntie, have you never wondered how with all of the damage to buildings, lamp posts and everything else in this place we don't have an armoured car trying to barge down the door." She spoke to the auburn-haired woman, but fixed each person around the table in turn, asking them all the same question without speaking. The blank looks she received almost made her scowl. _Am I the only person in this town who uses their brain for something other than romantic fantasy or plotting a rival's demise_? she asked herself, and not for the first time.

"You bribe the police, Nabiki?" Kasumi gasped, hand fluttering to her lips

The bitter snort erupted from her before she could control it. _Calm down, it's Kasumi, she's has to think the best of people, _she admonished herself.

"Like I've got the money for that," Nabiki shook her head, and forced her tone flat once again. "That's not how it works. The Kuno's bribe the police; I have evidence of that bribery so they leave us alone. They're probably just too damned scared of what Cologne could do to bother the Nekohanten."

"How unseemly," Nodoka muttered. "It's hard to believe that the police would go along with this."

Nabiki gnawed at the inside of her lip to stop herself scowling at the older woman. _And promising to kill your son is the height of cultured behaviour, is it you, damned nut. _She would have to check her father's story that Nodoka was once her mother's best friend, it seemed more unlikely every time the woman spoke.

"Of course they do," she sighed and raked a hand through her hair, the feel of her silky locks running over her fingers calming her. "They have no interest in getting rid of the martial artists in this town as it makes their jobs beyond cushy. People like Ranma do their job for them. There's nothing for them to do but sit around and look attentive whilst eating fast food, and they get paid to do it.

" Even though Nerima has the highest insurance rates and property damage reports in Tokyo, it also had the lowest figures nearly every other major crime. Murder, arson, sexual abuse they don't exist here, and the only thefts are of women's underwear. Even the yakuza have left town. The only reason the police would interfere is if someone complained, and a few yen or a sensitive photo usually dissuades them from following up on that."

"This is because of Ranma?" Genma asked, eyes blinking behind his spectacles. Nabiki could guess at the cause of his surprise, _I bet it never occurred to him to use martial arts to **stop **crime. _However, she saw his eyes dart to glance at his wife, and upon seeing the small smile of pride that curved her lips he puffed out his chest. "Well of course, he is my son after all."

The air seemed to snap as Ukyo, Akane and Nabiki all snorted in perfect, synchronised gestures of womanly disapproval. She felt a spark of satisfaction as he flinched.

"It's not just Ranma," Ukyo said crossing her arms beneath her breasts and lifting her chin. "Some gang was trying to run a protection racket among the other shops on our street. Konatsu caught them and we pounded them flat and delivered them to the cops." A grin had spread across her face as she tossed a wave of chestnut hair back over her shoulder like a preening bird.

Nabiki smiled. "That same gang apparently tried the same trick with the Nekohanten. They were found bloodied and bruised, and dangling by steel chains from a lamp post with a copy of the takeout menu stuffed in their mouths." She remembered charging them quite a hefty sum for getting them down, right before she called the cops, and she felt her smile widen slightly

"It's the same all over Nerima," she continued after banishing the grin away. "Just ask around and you'll here a tale like how a group of thieves, who had been stealing wallets and jewellery from the lockers at the swimming pool, were flung into the deep end by a girl with a red pigtail; or how the road works on Mikawa street last month were caused by some guy with a bandana, who had stopped a bunch of car thieves by making the road explode in front of them as they tried to make their getaway."

"Unfortunately the Kuno's, stupid and insane as they are, have been known to help out from time to time, and often compensate the victims out of their own pockets and out of 'the duty of a noble house to aid the lower castes for the betterment of society. _Noblesse oblige, _I think Kuno-baby calls it."

"Is that a bad thing?" Kasumi asked in her soft voice. "It sounds awfully nice of them."

"Oh, it isn't," Nabiki grunted. "However it has made them so damned popular that the police aren't going to do anything to them except collect their bribes."

"We don't need them anyway," Akane said with a huff. "I can take care of this myself."

"Akane, did that blow to the head addle your wits?" Ukyo cried waving her hand in front of Akane's eyes as if she had passed out. "This isn't a challenge match, Kodachi is seriously trying to kill us."

Akane's neck seemed to inflate as she ground her teeth together. "Then why aren't you running to the police, Ukyo, if you're that worried?"

"I can take care of myself, Akane, you…"

"And I can't? Is that it?" Akane burst in. "Why is everyone against me, why won't you give me a chance to care taker of my own problems." Her fingers whitened as they dug into the surface of the table

"Well there's only one thing for it," Genma said suddenly, and in a tone that pulled Akane's downcast eyes towards him. "We will have to pull Akane out of school."

"Saotome," Soun snapped, his moustache pinching as he frowned, "that is utterly out of the question. Her education might suffer."

A short grunt from his throat was all Genma needed to portray his feelings about that matter. However, he flinched when his wife cleared her throat curtly. He slipped a finger under his head-wrap to rub across his forehead.

"That is a shame, Tendo, but surely her life is more important? At school she is open and vulnerable to Kodachi's attacks. Today's attack occurred when she was on her way back from school, and proves that she is a prime target then. Without the police we are the only ones who can protect her, and we can do that best here, on our own turf."

"Oh, how nice of you, _sensei_," Akane spat the title out like venom. "So nice that even with your great training, you still think I should be kept safe. Perhaps you would also like to wrap me up in cotton so that I don't get hurt. You're such a hypocrite, I can't believe I trusted you." Her voice began to break towards the end of her speech, and Nabiki knew that her sister was on the verge of breaking down or throwing a tantrum. She hoped it was the later.

"Akane!" Nodoka snapped, the harsh reproof in her voice was echoed in Kasumi's stern frown.

"Oh, I never said you'd be safe." Genma's voice floated on a soft almost absent lilt that sent a shiver down Nabiki's spine. A crooked smirk ran across his dark face, the white teeth visible between his curved lips. His eyes had narrowed, a predatory gleam shining beneath the hooded lids as she regarded his pupil.

"Kodachi won't get to you," he continued, still seeming to smile even though his lips shifted and moved to form his words, "but you won't be safe and you will be hurt. I know this because every day that you are not at school, you will train. You will train with me and you will train alone. You will train in pain and you will train through that pain. You will train until you cannot stand, and then you will train lying down. You will train until your knuckles are bruised, and then you will train until your bruises are bruised. You will train while you eat and you will train while you bathe, and when you sleep you will dream of training.

"The little I have taught you so far was enough to keep you alive today. After six more months of my training, you will be good enough to beat Kodachi and Shampoo together, if you are not lazy, and even then your training will not be finished. It will never be finished."

His smile dropped from his face as he crossed his arms across his broad chest, his posture seemed to swell until his gut sagged over the knot of his belt. His aura though invisible, filled the room with an intangible pressure. The girls gathered around the table stared at Saotome Genma as if seeing him for the first time. In many ways they were.

Ukyo's bottom lip was clamped beneath her front teeth as she watched him from the corners of her eyes as a leopard might watch a lion. Kasumi covered her mouth with her hand, hiding her thoughts. Nodoka's eyes seemed to shine with a rediscovered spark and Nabiki thought she saw her shiver as she gazed at him.

Nabiki's eyes narrowed at this change in the large man, her brain tingling as she wondered how long such a personality shift would last, and how it would affect things. Realising that other might look her way to see her reaction she attempted to simulate their numb shock, covering the workings of her mind by opening her eyes wide and letting her jaw drop in vacant shock.

"When you are good enough, when you beat Kodachi," Genma continued softly. "I will give you your life back." His eyebrow rose and his smirk crawled higher. "If you still want it."

Nabiki saw Akane's hands shake against the tabletop.

"Saotome, how dare you?" Soun barked. "Not only do you threaten to hurt my daughter and push her to dangerous limits, you want her to fight that monster again. No, I say, not my little girl."

Tears streamed down his face, flexing and unflexing his fists at his sides as he stood over his long time friend, his chest pumping like bellows beneath the black folds of his gi.

Nabiki leant forward to watch the scene closer, seeing the birth of her predictions start to unfold before her. She had known that friction would start to create emotional sparks between her father and his old friend. Genma Saotome had done many stupid things where his son was concerned, yet when these past event returned like sprouting weeds, Soun's anger was always directed towards the boy rather than on the panda upon whose shoulders the real responsibility always fell. With Ranma gone, it was easy, for Nabiki, to see that the elder Saotome would soon have to face up to the past. The odds had risen to a dead certainty when Genma had taken over the training of Soun's too beloved youngest child.

"Tendo, old friend," Genma said softly rising to his feet and standing square with the taller man. His large hand rose and clapped down upon his old companion's shoulder, the coarse fabric under his thick fingers creasing as he gave a quick but firm squeeze. A small, wistful smile played across his lips "She's not your little girl anymore."

Genma's voice hardened, small but emphatic fraction. "She is my student, and a martial artist."

Genma released her father's shoulder and turned, locking Akane with a raptor gaze enhanced by the eerie light that flickered across the lenses of his spectacles.

"If she wants to be."

Voiced like a thrown gauntlet, the Saotome master's words were more like a horse's reins tugging Akane in a direction she already wanted to go. He even added the claim of defeating her rivals; a holy grail to Akane, and in just six months it was just as unobtainable. Nabiki had been using such verbal puppet-strings for years, and swallowed as she heard the message hidden in his voice.

Genma Saotome would definitely need to be watched, closely.

-

Akane grunted as she hit the floor with a thump, her hand failing to find purchase as the matress slipped from the bed. Her brain struggled and floundered from the ocean of sleep and she felt the rough texture of the carpet pressing against her cheek. With a small groan, she rolled onto her back, tangling her legs in her bedsheets and flipping the pillow from atop her head. She squinted into the light and blinked rapidly, hoping the white and brown blur in front of her would resolve into a clear image.

When she refocused her eyes she found herself staring at Genma Saotome as he glared down at her through his spectacles, one hand still lifting the corner of her bed that he had used to tip her unceremoniously to the floor.

"Time to train," he said in a gruff voice.

Akane rubbed at her eyes with her thumb and index finger before craning her neck to glance behind her. The last two glowing digits of the bedside clock were obscured behind a class of water, filling the remaining liquid with fluorescent red light; but she could still see the first number, an angular six proclaiming the time as the early morning. Her eyes turned to the sky through the gap in her curtains, the sky still washed a dark blue.

"Why so early; we've got all day?" she said before adding "thanks to you" beneath her breath.

"This is not a vacation, girl," he barked. "You need to train harder then ever now. Ranma's not here anymore."

"But why so early," she grumbled. "You never woke Ranma up this early," _because you always wanted to sleep in too, lazy panda._

Genma did not reply but let go of the bed; it fell back to the floor with a bang that Akane felt beneath her. He stepped to the side and grabbed her mirror from the wall by her desk. He paused to examine it, frowning at his own reflection before turning his glare on her, his eyes narrowed, and tossing the frame into her lap.

"That's why," her sensei said, gesturing at the mirror with a flick of his hand. He readjusted his glasses before pivoting on his heel.

"Dojo, ten minutes," he barked before pulling the door closed behind him

Akane frowned as she pushed herself up into a sitting position and grabbed the mirror before it slid off her lap. She knew what Genma had meant when he had given it to her, but as she raised it to her eyes, she could not stop the gasp that came on her harshly drawn breath.

Bands of reddened, angry flesh were wrapped around her neck and dark purple blotches were woven amongst the livid red lines. Thin lines of flaky scabs were etched on the raw skin from shallow cuts inflicted by the sharpened frabric of Kodachi's ribbon. Akane tentatively touched herself in the nape of her throat and softly trailed her fingers across her neck, shivering as fire blazed in the wake of the light contact.

The old panda was right; she could not afford to lie in bed. Kodachi was out for blood. The gymnast had taken a step into somewhere dark, and it frightened Akane. Nabiki had guessed that the girl hated all of her former rivals for Ranma's affection, but somehow Akane knew that it was her blood that Kodachi wanted most of all.

_Ranma's not here anymore. _Her hands balled into fists around her bedclothes as she recalled Genma's words, his gruff voice melding with a more concerned feminine tone as she remembered Ukyo saying the exact same thing.

_I'm getting tired of hearing that_, she thought with a scowl as she threw aside the covers and rose to her feet in an angry rush, diving into her gi and pulling it closed with stiff yanks.

Akane yanked her belt tight as she descended the last steps, the black fabric snapping as it closed about her slim waist. She continued on in to the living room, her neck muscles seeming to bunch at her conscious efforts to keep her chin raised, fingers deftly moving with practised ease to tie a firm knot. When she saw the paper laying at her father's table, still crisply folded, the muscles in her body relaxed from their unknown tension and she sighed out a breath she had not realised she had been holding. She had not wanted to confront her father this morning.

Akane had gone to her room after Genma's announcement, her father's wails chasing her up the stairs. She had known that a storm of weeping, tears and furious demon headed battle auras would have rocked the Tendo living room, and she had seen that show far too many times. She had made up her mind and leaving with her head held high had seemed the best way to declare her decision. Ukyo had left soon afterwards; Akane had watched her stroll along the road from her bedroom window, giant spatula swaying with each of the chef's steps. It had been a welcome sight; despite part of her mind chastising her and reminding her to be grateful that Ukyo had shown up when she did, Akane could not help glaring at the taller girls retreating form, glad to see the back of her that night.

The shogi door jerked in its fittings as it hit an old snag in its tracks but continued on smoothly and Akane slid through into the dojo, feeling the coarse, chilling kiss of the tatami on the soles of her feet. A soft rasping noise drew her attention to the far end of the hall where her sensei was entering from the other door.

"You're late," he muttered with a scowl.

"You've just got here yourself," she responded quickly.

Genma bristled, "I'm the teacher."

"Then should you not be setting a good example?" Akane let a smirk curl her lips as a sour look twisted Genma's face. He snorted and a thud rumbled through the wooden panels of the dojo floor. Eyes darting to the source of the sound she saw a large duffel bag on the floor, the sides deformed by several protrusions that strained the thick fabric. A small clatter rose from with as the contents settled.

"What's in the bag?" Akane asked immediately.

"Training aids," Genma grunted, nudgingthe large sack aside with the edge of his foot as he stood in front of her, blocking her curious gaze with his broad chest.

"Later," he said gruffly. His large hand rose until it hovered before her eyes, and he pointed with a thick finger to a spot behind her.

"Kata," he barked.

Her breath trailed out of her in a long sigh but she moved back to the indicated space, and began to bow at the waist as she let the thoughts fade from her mind, growing smaller and fainter as they fell further into the void, until they vanished into the darkness completely. Rising she brought her hands together, left laying gently over her right. She inhaled, filling her lung with the cold air until it burned her throat as she inscribed a wide circle with her hands and lowered them again. Then she exploded into motion, blowing out her breath in a strong blast as she struck out her knifehand with all of her intensity. The yellow cloth of her gi cracked like thunder, and she flowed like crashing waves through Naihanchi, the kata she had practised arduously since Genma Saotome had taken hold of her training.

It ended swiftly, a short but deadly dance. Her sensei said nothing as he stood like granite statue, arms folded above his bulging paunch, but Akane saw his eyes narrow behind the lenses of his spectacles, and so with another deep breath she began again; and again.

Genma paced around her in wide oval, the callused heels of his feet thudding against the dojo floor, the creak of the wood sounding the halls protest at his powerful steps. He traced a spiralling path around her, keeping out of range of her intense strikes but drawing closer with each orbit.

"Again," he snapped, the voice seemed to come from right behind her, but she forced herself not to flinch, pushing her body through the movements, each one a brutal act of defence. She saw him, a white bulky shape at her flank, moving towards her. She tensed as she slid into the next movement, twisting her hips as she brought her arms around, one arm across her body and poised at the point of her crooked elbow.

"Watch your stance"

The snapped command was the only warning she had, but it was enough. Genma's foot swept up in a fast arc, hacking at Akane's heel as she settled into the low, knock-kneed posture.

She flashed her foot up, flicking her heel towards her groin and allowing her sensei's attack to skim furiously across the floor, his toes whispering across the tatami. As fast as she had liftred it, she stamped her foot down, heel pounding against the floor as she dropped back into her stance. Fists still raised, she smirked at her teacher, who stood on one leg, the limb he had tried to trip her with bent at the knee with his heel flat on his trunk-like thigh.

His lip twitched in what might have been a ghost of a smile. "Good," he said shortly. "But where's your counter?" he yelled as he thrust out with his cocked foot. The sole of his foot shot like a piston into her shoulder and sent her reeling from her feet.

She landed hard on her side, her hipbone jarring against the floor as she slapped the ground to lessen her impact.

"Ouch," she hissed and glared through her dark bangs at the large man.

"Your own fault," he said gruffly. "A dodge or evasion is worthless without a counter attack." He lifted his hand with his finger pointing skyward. "Defence is worthless without offence"

"And offence is wasted effort without defence," Akane finished on a long sigh as she picked herself up, busying her hands with adjusting the knot of her belt so that it could not rub at the sore spot blossoming on her hip.

Genma rubbed at his stubble with his hands, emitting a low and thoughful hum from his pressed lips. "It's not perfect," he grunted. "Some of your movements are still jerky and robotic, rather than flowing through the full combination. You are overtensing your muscles which is slowly you down, wearing you out, and weakening your techniques; yet you still lack conviction in your movements."

Akane continued to fiddle with her belt, suddenly unwilling to look at her the man lecturing her with such a harsh tone.

"But you have come a long way, and I'm sure that you will master it soon. However, with Kodachi's attack, we must increase the pace and build up your arsenal."

"Really?" she gasped as her head snapped up, a grin spread across her face. Her hands stopped their fiddling, but now it felt as if something was squirming beneath her skin. She snapped her fists down in front of her, ready and waiting, feeling as if something was going to burst from inside.

"Let's start, I'm ready for anything," she said trying to keep the excitement from her voice and knowing she had failed. Finally she would learn the techniques that would make her strong, the moves that would let her wipe that arrogant smirk from Kodachi's face as she drove it into the dirt. It was time to step up onto the stage with her secret weapon, and be noted.

"Are you sure?" Genma asked with a sly, half-smile.

"Definitely," she replied immediately. She wondered what the technique would be called. _I hope it's a dragon something…wait, that's really more Ranma's animal. _That soured her a little, she wanted to strike out on her own not bond herself tighter to Ranma's trail. _Maybe it will be a tiger; Mr Saotome does seem to be fond of that._

Again he pointed to the centre of the dojo, "Naihanchi nidan," he ordered.

Akane felt something drop into her stomach, and her body jerked, eyes widening as if she had been pulled short by a leash as she had tried to break away. Realising that her mouth was hanging open she closed it with a faint click and swallowed. It took her a moment to find her voice.

"Excuse me," was all she could manage.

"Naihanchi nidan," he repeated, and then his eyes narrowed. "Is there a problem?" he asked in an iron tone.

"Problem?" she whispered, then yelled, "PROBLEM? I thought you were going to teach me to defeat Kodachi?"

He started, recoiling slightly before he blinked twice and stared at her with his thin eyebrows furrowed deeply. He then drew himself up to his full height, spreading his shoulders as he thrust out his chest. "That's what I am doing," he pronounced loftily.

"You're making me walk like a crab," she spat. "How will that help me against Kodachi and her weapons?"

Genma's face reddened and his jaw swelled as he ground his teeth. "Then tell me, _oh wise master,_" he hissed, voice loaded with poison, "What would you suggest we do?"

Akane felt the muscles in her body go tense at his tone, her fists quivered at her sides so she clamped them against her hips to still them. "Well," she forced the word out through clenched teeth, "I would expect the head of the great Saotome school would know of a technique suited to beating a psychotic gymnast."

"A technique?" He spread his eyes wide as he swept a short bow, made all the more mocking by the crooked smirk that countered the fire in his eyes. "Oh I am sorry, Akane; I thought you wanted to learn martial arts, when all you want is a quick fix."

"What does that mean?" she growled.

Genma smirked, "You say you're a martial artist, you work it out."

"I am a martial artist." She stepped forwards and lifted herself onto the tips of her toes, flinging the words in his face like a gauntlet.

"Then prove it, girl," he snapped, poking a finger into sternum to indicate the same spot in the dojo. "Naihanchi nidan," he ordered.

Another protest began to rise in side of her but she smothered it and forced the words back down her throat with an effort that made the ribbon marks on her neck burn. Her feet pounded against the floor as she stomped to the space he had marked.

Akane inhaled to start the kata, trying to let the tension flow out of her as but her anger clung on. She lifted her fists to her chest, fists held straight across her breasts with knuckles facing each other. Slowly she rotated them until her elbow came together, shielding her face with her forearms and her fists pointed skyward. Crossing her left leg in front of her right, she strafed to the side and swung a hammer strike in a smooth but mighty arc.

"Atrocious," Genma said when she had finished the form. A crocodile tear slid down his cheek as he pressed his palm to his chest and gazed with beseeching eyes towards the heavens. "Oh, what will become of the Anything-Goes School," he cried.

Akane seethed but caught herself as she lifted her foot to take a furious step towards the old man and halt his false lamentation with her fist. _He would just take it as proof of what he said, _she told herself as she fought to maintain her stance. _He's just goading you into following his plans; _it made sense but still brought her no comfort. She would show him that she was as much martial artist as any Saotome.

She threw herself through the kata.

"No," her sensei said bluntly, folding his arms as he shook his head with a sigh. "You've lost everything you had gained in the first form. Naihanchi nidan is but the second part in a greater whole."

"My dad never really used it much," Akane murmured. "He mostly just taught the first Naihanchi kata before he moved on to something more complicated and faster, like Yansu or Noopan."

Genma made a choking sound, "Noopan. I'm surprised he taught that pattern, more so that he kept the name."

A giggle slipped from between her lips before she knew it had formed, "I had always thought some of the kata names were odd, now that I've met the founder I can understand."

A sour grimace tightened Genma's lips, "The original training was much more terrifying," he muttered. "The master made us join him in stealing panties off of girls while they were still wearing them."

"Ew," Akane muttered with a shiver, as she realised that the 'us' that Genma spoke of was probably him and her own father. She thought of the kata name, _no panties, _and decided that it made sense in a twisted way. That thought made her shudder harder. She resolved to whack the old pervert good, the next time she saw his wrinkled face.

"However that kata will not help you against Kodachi," the elder Saotome said in a hard voice, pushing his glasses further up his nose.

With the nausea Akane was feeling at that moment, she thought it unlikely that she would ever practise that form again. Knowing the orgins of such training made the movements seem tainted. Part of her felt a twinge of loss as it had been one of her favourite exercises; full of fast palm strikes and deceptive hand motions Now she knew why, and berated herself as a pervert for ever liking that kata. Her curiosity was undiminished however and forced her to inquire about Genma's comment.

"You're too slow," he answered flatly, and for a moment Akane could hear his son's sneer echo his words.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Akane shot back.

"It means exactly what I said: you are too slow," Genma replied in a cold voice. " At least, you are too slow to utilise that technique effectively. It would be like you performing the Kachu Tenshin Amaguriken."

"I could do that. Get me some chestnuts."

The tassels of his bandana swayed as her teacher shook his head. "Not yet, and we don't have time."

"Ranma learnt it in a week, so can I?" she protested, but it sounded weak to her own ears. Ranma had been far better than her when he had learnt the chestnut fist.

"No you could not," her teacher said firmly. "Kodachi, is out for blood and we do not have the time to watch you burn your hands because of your foolish pride." He fixed her with a hawk-like glare. "Now, do you want to defeat your enemy for do you wish to play with hot nuts?" he asked, each word formed in tones of iron.

"Fine," she sighed. "Let's just get on with it."

The head of the Saotome school nodded stiffly, "Good, now you will perform both of the Naihanchi kata in succession and repeat until I am satisfied. This way all the intensity and subtle motion you have gained in the fist kata will be included in the second. Begin."

Biting back a thousand protests, retorts and expletives Akane obeyed. She moved to an instinctual rhythm through the first set, yet the second form was jerky and stiff. So she repeated it, and repeated it, her knees ached and her thigh muscles bunched from maintaining the low stance as she moved. She was like a sliding hourglass, knee turned in and her energy trickling away like the sands of time. Her skin began to flush as beads of sweat blossomed on her brow and dripped from her nose to the tatami, but she continued.

She could feel herself improve, her body moving with liquid ease through the kata with such fluidity that the two forms blended and formed one single pattern. Same techniques, same strategy, but new directions and applications were being introduced as her body mastered the art of holding its ground. Energy was beginning to flee her strikes and her breath rang in hollowed pants in her ears-

Until all of the air was forced from her lungs as something ploughed into her gut. Her hands wrapped across her stomach as she felt her legs waver, the strength suddenly leaving her body. Her mouth moved but she could not breath, the convulsing of her throat sending waves of burning pain through her. Unable to stand she sagged onto her knee, the tatami blurring as her eyes filled with water.

The large medicine ball gave a hollow ring as it bounced on the floor and into Genma Satome's waiting hands.

"Why didn't you dodge?" he asked in a casual tone, more suited to asking why there was no milk in the fridge or some other mundane inquiry.

_HOW THE HELL WAS I SUPPOSED TO DODGE, YOU MORON_, the words formed in her mouth and she tried to push them out in a roar of rage but all she could manage was a small, breathless croak. She forced her lungs to take in air despite the muscles in her abdomen screaming at her. Finally, she had inhaled enough to force out words with a pained effort.

"What the…?" she trailed off as her body gulped in another strained rush of oxygen.

Genma leant forwards, craning his head and cocking his ear, face twisted with concentration. "What was that, Akane? I couldn't quite make it out"

"Bas-" she gasped. "-tard."

He shrugged. "So many have said, but I did warn you, I'm not going to go easy on you, Akane. You will improve or you will break."

Akane pushed herself back to her feet, knees wobbling with the strain. She felt weak and beaten but she was not broken yet.

"Why…the…ball?" she managed to ask between haggard breaths.

"Just a little training aid, " he took a step back and seized the large, bulging duffel bag. "Presenting Genma Saotome's bag of tricks," he announced with great ceremony as he upended the sack and dumped its contents on the floor into a heap, the objects clattering loudly on the wooden floor.

Akane's eye widened, first in surprise then further as her mind recognised the jumble of instruments in their tangled pile. The brightly coloured fabric of three ribbons were wrapped in chaotic coils around two pairs of gymnastics clubs. Four hoops of shining steel bound with tassells of red and white, lay with bundled ropes of smooth, white cord. Balls daubed in bright washes of pinks and green swayed amongst the cluttered equipment, one escaping to roll across the floor until it bumped against Genma's large, callused foot.

"Bag of tricks?" she grunted, her voice still weak and raspy. "This is just the rhythmic gymnastics equipment left over from when I trained with Ryoga."

Genma nodded, "Yes, it is."

He glanced down, and nudged the errant ball back towards the pile with a flick of his toe. "Quite a range isn't there, lots of ways for Kodachi to attack you. And if she has started to use spikes and razor blades like you say, you had better learn to avoid them."

The picture of Kodachi hefting a barbed club flashed through her mind, reddened lips curled back to reveal snarling white teeth, and a pair of dead, soulless black eyes. Suppressing a shudder, Akane swallowed and nodded.

Genma held a fine plastic rod between his large fingers and rolled it back and forth, setting the ribbon at its end into a dance of spiralling blue satin.

"Then let's begin, start the kata again."

The ribbon writhed against the floor with a thunderous snap.

-

The sun drowned in a sea of pale clouds, hidden from view but filling the sky with a watery wash of meagre light rippled with swirls of dark grey. The whispy shapes slid overhead in a steady flow, forming a fluid canopy of transient cumulus laced with nebulous trails like the crests of ghostly waves that caressed rather than crashed against the misted rocks at Emei's peak.

"Stop staring at the sky, Ranma. It's not going to rain," Ryoga growled amongst the sound of his shuffling.

"I'm telling you, it's going to rain," Ranma insisted, head still craned as he gazed at the massing swarm of clouds. "I can feel it."

Ryoga snorted. "I must have forgotten that you fell into the spring of drowned groundhog."

"You're the only hog around here

Chan," Ranma threw back without taking his eyes from the bleak sky.

"Ranma,"the other boy snarled. Ranma tensed, ready to move as soon as the sensation of an angry charge tickled his brain, but it never came. Easing back against the wide pillar, he settled the pressure between his shoulder blades, finding his comfort with a small sigh. He flicked at his pigtail idly, making the dark braid sway before it came to rest along the slope of his neck and chest.

A thump came from above and Ranma glanced up as a shadow flittered across his eyes. A large crow gave a wild cry that trailed into a croon as it leapt from the curving roof and soared into the air. Ranma's eyes traced its path back to the eldge where the cyan tiles of the small shrine met with the thick wooden beams, painted with bright, lucky red. He slid his foot closer until he could prop his hand on his knee, scarlet satin whispering against the rough cotton of his black pants.

"What are we doing here, Ranma?" Ryoga asked.

Ranma sighed again, watching as his breath trail out in coils of vapour that caught a flicker of wind and rose above to join the mountain's mists. He turned a hooded gaze on the lost boy who sat upon the worn boards of ancient oak, leaning back against their two bulging packs. He scowled from beneath his tousled black bangs, arms folded across the rough canvas of his yellow jerkin.

"I told you, it's going to rain."

"You said that two hours ago," Ryoga said, glancing around the ruined shrine. "We've yet to see a drop."

"It'll come," Ranma said tightly and turned away, letting his eyes trail down the sloping land that rolled from the steps of the shrine into the dense forest wrapped around the mountain like a cloak of wood and green. The trees swayed in the wind: the twigs groping like gnarled skeletal fingers as the springy fronds of the conifers danced to the rhythm of winter.

"Sure it will," Ryoga drawled with a sneer. "Just like that bridge was going to collapse, after it had stood over the stream for a hundred years."

"The wood was rotten," Ranma murmured weakly.

"It's your head that's rotten." The corner of his lips curled upwards into a smirk that bared his left fang. "Or is little miss Ranma scared of the water?"

Ranma's knuckles whitened as he gripped his pants, his hands tightened reflexively around a fistful of fabric.Experience through many fights should have prepared him for such a remark, as occasionally Ryoga did hit hard to the right target. Since the previous afternoon the sight of cold, rushing water and its frothing wave crests, or the dark rain-laden clouds that painted the sky black, brought the memory of smug, blue eyes. His stomach turned in his belly.

"Maybe I'm just tired of walking around with a perverted pork chop snuggling against me," Ranma growled; like any martial artist who had suffered a close blow, he struck back swiftly.

"Who are you calling a pervert?" Ryoga yelled, bolting to his feet.

"Well I don't know, Ryoga, perhaps it was one of the other direction-blind jerks on this over-crowded part of the mountain."

Ranma stood, facing the larger youth with one foot still propped on the steps; ready to launch into a backflip as soon as the charge came.

"I knew that I could feel a fight calling me, brother," a voice whispered, carried on the wind.

"More like a lover's tiff," sneered another.

Ranma's eyes flicked up towards Ryoga as the other boy tensed, glaring over the young Saotome's shoulder with narrowing eyes. Ranma stepped back and spun on the ball of his feet, his pigtail whipping over his shoulder as he turned. His brows lowered as he watched two men emerge from the fridge of clustered trees, and he felt his jaw tighten as he saw a now familiar crest of wild yellow hair. He rolled his hands into fists, the cracking of knuckles echoing in the air like the first volley on a silent battlefield.

Blitz strolled from the forest on his heels, hands buried in the pockets of his dark slacks, each step rolling languidly after the other. The hem of his sleeveless, black mantle swirled about his legs as he moved, the twin dragons of sliver and gold rippling across the silken fabric. A wry smirk curved his lips but did not touch the pale blue eyes behind the single, swaying blade of blonde hair that hung to the fine contours of his jaw, which bunched above the folded turtleneck of his woollen sweater.

Ranma's fist twitched at his sides from the urge to slam his knuckles into that smug mouth. He folded his arms, clamping his hands under his armpits as he tore his eyes away to regard Blitz's companion.

This man was taller and more powerfully built that the lithe blonde at his side, with broad shoulders that filled the folds of his coat, the flock of embroidered, golden hawks soaring across the garment through a cloudless sky of royal blue. Where Blitz strutted this man prowled, sliding forwards on ths balls of his feet with a steady grace, yet his steps seemed to resonate in the grass. His face was stern and forbidding,his jaw squared, lips set in a scowl that looked as if it never left his face. His eyes were orbs of frozen, blue steel that contrasted vividly with the waves of fiery red hair, kept short and parted like hot, moulded iron.

"What do you creeps want?" Ranma asked, ignoring the feeling of Ryoga's indignant glare boring into his back at his words. The pair stopped before the shrine. He quickly gauged the distance as about five paces, close enough for each party to see the other and spot any attempt to attack from the flanks. _These guys are no amateurs._

"You are Ranma Saotome?" the larger one said, his eyes running over Ranma in obvious appraisal.

"That's me, were you expecting something else?" Ranma felt a spike of satisfaction as he noticed Blitz twitch, but he fought the smile down.

The man's eyes passed to Ryoga, Ranma sure that he could see flames igniting in those blue irises. "That would make you, Ryoga Hibiki?" he said, visibly biting at each word.

"If we're playing twenty questions perhaps you could answer mine," Ranma said in a dry tone before he hardened his voice. "What do you want?"

"Not what you are offering, queer," Blitz snapped.

"Excuse me?" Ranma's voice sounded like drawn steel to his own ears. He tensed the muscles in his arms to keep his fists still, fingers digging into his flesh like a vice.

Blitz opened his mouth but his comrade spoke first.

"Since you have apparently met," he hissed. "I will introduce myself, I am Brand of the Divine Order, and I have business with the two of you."

Ranma snorted. "The business most people tend to have with me, either involve kisses or fists. I know what your pervert friend here wants, what about you?"

The man turned his blue gaze on Ranma, "So, you are the one rumours say defeated Saffron of the Phoenix." His eyes roved over his form again with an almost clinical glare. "A pity," he said after a while, his shoulders slumping for an instant. "However I would be willing to match fists with you, if you give me reason."

"Men like us don't need reasons."

Brand nodded, his lips forming the tiniest half-smile that was belied by the heat of his voice. "That is very true, but it is your friend who I wish to address, unless of course you have an issue with that?"

Ranma blinked, "Ryoga?"

"Me?" Ryoga said vacantly, his eyebrows lifting towards his bandana.

"Yes, you," Brand barked suddenly, advancing a single, enraged step. His hand rose and he thrust his finger at Ryoga as if to drive it through the lost boy's chest despite the distance between them. "Ryoga Hibiki, you are a lecher and, as a Master of Emei Bagua zhang, I challenge you to combat."

"Lecher," Ryoga repeated, his jaw dropping. "What? Why…" His mouth snapped closed and he his fangs. "How dare you?"

The bark of laughter that nearly exploded from Ranma's throat hurt as he swiftly swallowed it, but he could not stop a crooked smirk from curving his lips.

"Ryoga, a lecher? Boy, have you got your facts muddled. He hasn't got the guts or the blood supply to try and seduce anyone."

"Well he's lucky that you are man-slut enough for both of them," Blitz sneered.

Ranma felt the smile evaporate from his face as if boiled away by the roaring fire that ignited within his chest and suffused his skin with a furious heat.

"I would advise you to take that back, before things get rough."

Blitz chuckled, lips forming the wry grin that chilled Ranma's blood with loathing. "Sorry I'm not gay. You can't seduce me with the weird sex games you and fanged boy play."

"If recall correctly, you hit on me. If any of us is queer it's you blondy"

"You fooled me with that damn curse of yours," Blitz snarled. "I bet it's a dream come true for you; a wiggle of your tits, a few strategic bends; and bang all the naïve straight guys a queer like you could want."

Ranma inhaled deeply through his nose, trying to seek his centre but found only a maelstrom, churning in his stomach and charging his muscles. He forced himself to remain still, concentrating on the sting of his fingers digging into his palm, knuckles turned white. He narrowed his eyes at the man before him,

"I am not a fag," he hissed between gritted teeth.

"Look, I did not hit on your sister." The sound of Ryoga's angry denial broke the deadlock between Ranma and the smirking blonde. "Ranma's the lecher not me."

Ranma barely restrained the urge to slap his head in frustration, "Damn it,

Chan. Sense the mood. Now is not the time for this."

"See your boyfriend agrees with me," Blitz said, one slender eyebrow arching beneath his sharp bang. .

"You really seem to have an urge to be put in traction," Ranma said softly, hiding bladed steel beneath the veil of sound.

Ranma tensed as he she saw a blue blur flick through his peripheral vision, and his senses screamed the threat. The flame haired man had taken another step towards Ryoga who had lifted his hands warily, shifting slightly on the ball of his feet.

"Don't try to pin this on your friend, he may have fought with her but it was you who tried the shy, innocent foreigner act on Willow. Men in China do not take kindly to Japanese pigs, who try to seduce their sisters; and they do not forgive."

Almost wincing when he heard the words spring from Brand's mouth, Ranma turned towards the bandana wearing youth. Ryoga's lips were curled back to reveal his fangs, green sparks flashing in his narrowed eyes. Then his lids became hooded, as he straightened, spreading his shoulders as he lifted a fist towards the larger Chinaman.

"And I don't take kindly to being accused of things I did not do. And I don't forgive people who call me a pig."

"Then you accept our challenge?"

Ranma noticed the change in pronoun; he glanced at Blitz and frowned. Despite the smirk and easy posture, he could now see the flickering of a white-blue battle aura around the slender man.

_No matter what I do, it always comes down to this, _he thought as he finally released his muscles from restraint. Suddenly they no longer pulled at him, but rather moved with prefect grace like a willing machine, as he flexed the fingers of his hand. _I doubt I would want it any other way, _he conceded with a smirk.

"As heir of the Musabetsu Kakuto Ryu, I say you're damned right we accept."

He stumbled to the side as Ryoga shouldered him aside. "I don't need you to speak for me, Ranma, " the other youth muttered. "I can accept my own challenges on behalf of…" he trailed off, his mouth still open but with no words to finish his sentence. Ranma saw the passion is his eyes waver like a candle in a sharp gust.

"…of the 'Prepare to die school of martial arts'," Ranma finished the other boy's sentence.

"Yes, the Prepare to…Ranma, now is not the time for jokes."

Ranma winced as Ryoga yelled into his ears. "Whose joking, it suits you. But you are right, now is not the time for jokes. Now is the time to hand out ass-whoopings and lolly pops. And I think we ran out of lolly pops."

The grin that grew on nhis rival's face mirrored his own as the other boy lifted a large hand to give a comradely pat on his shoulder. Ranma's mind was suddenly invaded by a vision of standing before a winged minotaur, Ryoga at his side, heated words fading before the threat ahead. His smile widened a little.

"You've got a point, Ranma." Ryoga said. "It's very rare that I find someone who pisses me off more than you."

Blitz cleared his throats with embellished aplomb. "If you lovebird have finished with the heroic-rival anime crap, can we please get started so that I can kick your asses?"

The two men backed away, Brand make a grandiose sweeping gesture, like a lord entreating a lady to dance, beckoning the two Japanese youths to join them them on the sloping field of swaying grass.

Ranma followed as the group parted, his path parallel to Blitz's as they moved away from Ryoga who stood facing the large red-haired man, arms folded across his chest.

His heart was already beginning to quicken, the hairs rising on his body as if his skin had become charged. A swell of power blossomed in his stomach as he felt his face slip into the proud smirk he always wore; it was his banner, bringing him pride and grace as he rode into battle. He felt the world grow smaller, shrinking around him and his opponent, yet become deeper, more real. Reality shrunk away like a deflated bubble as he felt his soul and senses expand. The wind ran through his hair, trailing his braid across his shoulders, as it hissed through the branches and rattled the screens of the shrine

"Ah, screw this"

The words were his only warning. He flung his hands up, catching the fist with a flash slap against right palm as his left hooked upwards to knock the attacking arm away from his face. However, a low attack had slid past his senses, hacking at his legs as he tried to pivot away, and launching them up from beneath him. He spiralled in the air, feet rising as he torso fell. A yelp had begun to form in his mouth as he felt himself hang horizontally in the air for a split second; but the sound was sealed away as two palms slammed in to his chest. One hit following the other in such so rapidly that he felt a single blow, a explosive blast that stung with a sharp burning.

The sound of the air screeching in his ears told him that his was flying through the air at high speed. He grit his teeth and scrunched his eyes closed as something crashed into his back with the snap of breaking wood.

-

Ryoga watched with wide eyes as the man with the irrational locks of jagged, yellow her seemed to transform into a blur of black and blonde. He watched the powerful sweep that lobbed Ranma into the air like a soccer ball; but then was forced to wince, turning his head from the white flash that erupted without sound and flung Ranma into the trees.

A quiet rumbling rolled amongst the wind as if the sky was growling.

With a start, Ryoga remembered his own opponent, and his muscles tensed and locked into a fighting stance as he whipped his head around to regard the fiery maned man who had challenged him.

Brand had not moved; he still stood slightly hunched with his hands held in shaking fists at his sides, the wind ruffling through his red hair, making his scowl seem darker. Ryoga could almost feel the ground trembling beneath his feet. He felt his hackles rising.

"That was low," he growled through his fangs. "Even a jerk Ranma like deserves better. Is this what you call honour?" He turned his head to cast a large wad of saliva to the grass with a noisy spit.

The heat in Brand's glower intensified as if mixed with gasoline. He returned the spit, flinging his onto the ground between them. "A bastard who would try to take advantage of a man's sister has no right lecturing me on honour."

"I did not seduce your sister," Ryoga yelled, but his voice was drowned by the force of Brand's denial.

"LIES," the large man roared. "Your excuses will help neither you nor your friend. Even that pitiful rumour of him defeating Saffron will not help him against Blitz."

Ryoga's eyes narrowed. The events of Jusendo was the last thing he wanted to think of. That hour, when Akane had almost died, and Ranma had fought the phoenix king; had been like slowly bleeding to death. Watching his life drain away, slowly like blood soaking into the earth.

"What would you know about it," he snarled. "I was there."

Brand's snort seemed to resound over the entire mountain. "If the rumours are true, that would make you the weak one wouldn't it? The sidekick; always overshadowed and overlooked for the hero, yes?"

The air hissed as Ryoga drew breath through his clenched teeth, his fangs pressing into his bottom lips with enough force to break the skin. His entire body seemed to shake and shudder, his skin crawling as he felt his aura boil off of him like the sun's corona. _Overshadowed. Overlooked._ A vision, a memory flashed through his mind; Ranma surrounded by his fiances as they cooed and fought over him, Akane scowling but her eyes never leaving the pigtailed boy for an instant; Ryoga standing on the sidelines, the souvenirs he bought her hanging forgotten in his hands. His heart dropped in his chest as if suddenly burdened by an immense weight. The pressure suffused his muscles and hung in his belly like a ball of solid lead, bringing him power.

"Don't UNDERESTIMATE ME!" he screamed as he bolted forwards, feet crushing the earth as he advanced two paces and leapt into the air with all the strength in his legs.

His flight carried up high, and at the apex of his mighty jump he raised his foot high like an executioner's sword. Gravity seized him quicky and brought him crashing down upon his foe. He brought his foot down in a deadly arc, but watched as Brand smirked as swerved aside, leaving Ryoga's heel to plough into the ground, dirt erupting from around his crashing heel.

_Shit, _he cursed himself. Locating his opponent through the corners of his eyes, he pivoted sharply, grinding his foot further into the crater he had created, and cleaving the air with a swiping knifehand strike. He hit nothing as he watched Brand duck and weave beneath his swing. A palm thrust hard into his chin, mashing his teeth together. He was forced to stumble back but managed to bring his foot up and slam the soul of his slipper square into Brand's chest.

Brand staggered back a few, unsteady steps and pressed his hand against his breast with a grimace.

The two warriors glared at each other, each rubbing the spot where the other had struck. The air warped and boiled between them as their fighting spirits clashed. Then, like hungry wolves, they tore into each other.

-

A groan escaped through Ranmas' teeth as he slid himself up the trunk of the tree he had brought him to a stop, one arm wrapped across his chest as iff to hold in the burning pain that sang across his ribs. In front of him lay the furrow that his body had cut into the soft earth, and the fallen remnants of a once might oak, its trunks reduced to a splintered stump by the force of his flight.

Back on his feet he forced himself forwards, strength returning with each step, until after four paces he was able to slide into his fighting stance; lowering his weight onto the balls of his feet. He tucked his rear fist to his chin defensively and he stretched out one open hand. He watched his smirking opponent approach over the web between his thumb and forefinger as if it were a gunsight. Looking through the dragon's mouth, his father had called it.

"That was a cheap shot," he said in a low voice.

Blitz's smirk grew, "A cheap shot for a cheap man."

"Laugh it up chuckles," Ranma warned. "It might not seem so funny in traction."

"Big words from a guy I just knocked on his ass."

Ranma let out a bitter laugh, "You're talking to the student of Genma Saotome. Training with Pop's put me through every dirty trick in the book. It'll take more than a cheap shot to take out Ranma Saotome." He smiled grimly. "In fact it'll take more than you've got."

"Sounds like a dare." The words seemed to come from nothing, as Blitz had already moved like a flash.

Ranma answered motion with motion, stepping to the side and he twisted his shoulders from the path of a streaking palm strike, letting to blow slip past. He knocked aside a follow up strike with the back of his hand, stepping back at an angle. There was no relief as Blitz matched the move with a swinging step, pressing his assault into a flurry of blows. Ranma's hands flashed in defence, slapping aside a fierce thrust as he rolled his head from the path of another, sweeping his arm down to jam a rising palm. His eyes narrowed as he saw his opportunity, lifting his knee with foot cocked beneath his rapidly blocking arms.

Blitz's attack faltered, the blows weakening as he shied his gut from the expected kick, and Ranma smiled knowing the bait had been taken. He flicked his fist through the opening his feint had won him, poking a sharp jab to Blitz's face, sharp enough to make his foe's head snap back.

He twisted his hips forcefully, unleashing a powerful piston as he twisted on his heel and thrust his chambered leg into a powerful side kick, the edge of his foot pounding into the chinaman's gut.

Blitz flew back into a tree with a crash, but did not fall through, slumping onto his feet. His eyes burned into Ranma as he gathered himself up and lowered himself into his stance, open hands flowing in graceful circles before him.

"Like I said, " Ranma jeered, "More than you've got."

Blitz frowned darkly but said nothing, advancing forwards in slow measured steps. But Ranma remembered what the other man had called him and was in no mood to wait.

He lunged forwards with a fierce front punch, then turned slightly and put his entire body behind a powerful cross as his opponent circled around his first attack. He felt ribs give under his knuckles but took a hard blow to the side of his face in payment, lights exploding across his vision. His legs wobbled and he stubled to the side, shaking his head clear just in time to dodge an open hand blow that would have split his nose. He flung out both hands, wrapping his opponent's arm with the crook of his elbow and jabbing a single knuckle into the cavity at the end of the collarbone.

Blitz's face screwed in a grimace as the nerve was struck, and Ranma seized the opportunity. He pushed the opposite shoulder and seizedd a fistful of silk, twisting his body behind the effort as he pulled Blitz around. He swung his leg behind him, increasing the torsion as he dropped to one knee, driving Blitz's face towards the dirt with his grip on the man's shirt.

His eyes widened as his foe lunged into the throw, taking control of his fall and reaching across to post a hand on the ground. With control that some part of Ranma noted and admired, Blitz swung into a handstand and then, spinning into a circle with a step of his hands, whipped one foot across Ranma face before knocking him back with a hard kick.

Ranma fell back to the dirt, tasting blood in his mouth. He groaned as bells seemed to ring in his head, then realised that they were the peals of his instincts screaming at him. His eyes snapped open in time to see the shining leather shoe descend towards his face. Throwing his hands up, he caught the stomp on crossed palms and pushed it down towards his chest. With a growl threw the foot aside as he rolled onto his side and then onto his hands, modifying Blitz's own attack to push himself up and scissor his legs around his enemy's waist, forcing him down onto his face. He quickly scooted from beneath the other man, rolling to drop his heel hard across Blitz's shoulders.

The yellow haired man gave a squawk of pain but it did not stop him from moving quickly, flipping over and knocking away Ranma's leg before rolling away.

Ranma did the same, tucking into a backwards roll and coming to his feet in his fighting posture; now five paces from the other fighter. They watched each other as they paced sideways, each parallel to the other; eyes locked despite the tree trunks that passed between them.

Until Ranma used the cover of a stout, wide tree to reverse his direction, charging Blitz from his flank. He feinted high but struck low, catching the outside of Blitz's knee with a stomp kick while the other man lifted his guard. Blitz stumbled, allowing Ranma to launch into a fluid, practised combination. Snapping a backfist into his opponent's temple, he followed with a short but powerful uppercut to the chin that left the Emei master open, letting Ranma to plough his knuckles into his his gut.

Blitz folded over the attack, the air rushing out of him with a gasp.

The word 'fag' revolving his his mind, Ranma lifted his arm and brought his elbow down towards the prone man's shoulder blades. The blow never landed as Blitz lurched to the side with a shoulder barge that staggered Ranma, before rising with a twist that brought his elbow slamming into Ranma's jaw.

Ignoring the pain that spun his brain inside his skull, Ranma stepped back from the radius of Blitz's palms strikes and swung his foot into a high roundhouse kick.

Blitz took a circular step into the kicks arc, robbing it of power as he blocked at the knee with a fluid sweep of his arm. Winding his arm round in a crescent he bound Ranma's leg to his hip, trapping the Saotome heir tightly. Like pounding a mighty drum, he slammed his palm, heel first into Ranma's thigh.

Ranma hollered as pain erupted in the abused muscle, as if a laser has sliced into the nerve. He tried to counter attack, but could hardly summon the strength to clench his fist as the agony sang through his nerves. He fell forwards as Blitz released his leg, straight into the two palm strikes that slammed into his chest, and exploded.

"Niryu Happa Shou," Ranma heard Blitz call as he was sent rocketing backwards. He cried out as a tree thudded into his shoulder sending him into a spin that sent him tumbling to the floor in an awkward roll.

Coughing dirt and grass from his mouth with a loud spit, he pushed himself on to his hand before reaching out a shuddering hand to a nearby tree. Bracing his weight on the trunk, rough bark biting into his palm, he pushed himself onto his feet. His muscles protested each movement, only slowly obeying his commands as they tensed and untensed with what seemed to be eternal sluggishness, pain springing from his knotted joints.

With a shove, he stumbled from the tree and forced him self to face forwards, only to see a hand streaking towards him. He tried to move, flinging a hand up to parry but seemed to be trapped in slow motion until the palm slammed into his cheek.

He fell back onto the tree, head bouncing off of the wood with a hollow thunk and a spark of light. The point of a heel jabbed his injured thigh, dropping him to his knees as he hissed through his teeth. More blows fell, knuckles crashing under his ribs and knocking the air from him before two rapid strikes lashed his face.

Desperate for cover Ranma fell sideway onto his hands, kicking out like a mule. He felt his strike his home as his foot punched into yielding flesh, accompanied by a small groan. Retracting his leg, he posted it into the dirt as he pushed himself up and spun, lunging forwards to press his advantage with a hard left jab.

Blitz weaved around his fist, slipping to the side with a swinging step. Reaching up, the blonde circled and grabbed Ranma's hand at the wrist with a twist, other arm wrapping over the top and pressing down hard on the elbow. Ranma grimaced as the joint was bent beneath the pressure, and winced as Blitz swung a low kick into his shin, pain streaking along the bone and forcing him off balance.

Blitz dropped his stance and pivoted, applying more strain to Ranma's elbow and forcing him down.

Ranma struggled, trying to fight his way loose, but the lock robbed his arm of strength. He splayed his feet and bent his legs, lowering himself as the pain forced him down, but refusing to be taken to his knees. If he was knelt it would be over, a fighter of Blitz's calibre would find it all to easy to snap the arm like a dry, rotten twig.

A growl tore from his throat as he summoned his strength desperately, raising himself just enough to lift his leg and bring his heel pounding onto Blitz's instep. Blitz yelped, and Ranma struck harder, grinding his foot against the shining leather loafer and forcing the bones beneath to slide on each other.

The force drained from the arms that held him and Ranma tore himself free, bolting upright as he swung his arm around in an arc, capturing one of Blitz's own limps and clamping it tight. His right hand seemed to bulge with all the ki he could muster as he balled it into a fist with the staccato pop of his knuckles.

"Eat this," he snarled as he tore his enemies' guard wide open. "KACHU TENSHIN AMAGURIKEN!"

He unleashed the chestnut fist in an explosive spray of punches. His hands turned into scarlet blurs and he rained blow after blow onto his opponent like a hailstorm. The sounds of fist meeting flesh overlapped and blended into one droning hum. .He pounded into Blitz's face, ribs and gut with as much speed and force as he could muster, but mostly he pummelled that smug, mouth.

Finally his punches began to weaken, each attack slower the last until he threw one final blow with a wet slap. Blitz's face was streaked with blood, red rivulets dripping like a scarlet river over his chin. Ranma let the man's hand go and watched him slump forward, falling boneless onto his face with a whisper of crushed grass.

Ranma stumbled backwards, hunched over as his breath sawed in and out of his burning lungs. His fists felt like lead weights and it was a force of willpower to keep them up, maintaining his guard as he watched his opponent lie motionless on the forest floor.

A thick bead of sweat slid down his brow, tracing a slow, snaking path over the contours of his skin. It felt like an insect crawling over him, a trail of mopisture tingling along his flesh like a million scuttling feelers. He lifted a heavy, aching arm to wipe away the irritating glob with the back of his hand when Blitz stuck, uncloiling like a viper and casting a cloud of grass and dirt from his fists.

Reflex seized Ranma; he scrunched his eyes closed, turning his head away from the attack and shielding himself behind his crossed forearms. He felt the wave of soil graze ofver his face, and his mind screamed out his mistake; it was too late and a grip of iron clamped down on his wrists.

His eyes snapped open wide and met Blitz's gaze of cold, blue steel. The sharp bang of yellow hair that hung over his brow seem to flicker and undulate and bolts of blue-white light popped and crackled in the air around them. Ranma saw the other's mans blood strewn lips move slowly, the words chilling into the air like frost.

"Niryu Maku Satsu," he pronounced.

Pain became Ranma's world. It seemed to shoot into him through his arms and exploded within his chest. The sound of his own screams rose into the air but sounded distant and small as his mind was assaulted with shocks of pure torture. His nerves sang with agony, pain searing every cell of his body.

Then it stopped, and he fell, tottering backwards with stumbling steps that weaved from side to side. His nostrils were clogged with an acrid, burnt smell mixed with the crisp scent of ozone. He tried to open eyes and his hand twitched. On the second attempt his eyelids snapped apart; and he saw not Blitz, but two blonde crested ghosts. Transparent phantoms that weaved and flickered, their insubstantial bodies passing through each other.

The ghosts each thrust forward a right hand that suddenly seemed to grow huge, like that of a giant. Something slammed into his face and he reeled backward. A hand grabbed the lapel of his shirt and yanked him forwards into a palm that drove under his breastbone and seemed to crush his lungs from within. The air rushed out of him and he hacked up a wet mouthful of saliva that dribbled from his mouth. Then he was pulled again and again and more strikes crashed into his abdomen.

When he was released his knees could no longer support him and he fell forwards, eyes finally focussing in time to see the foot that swung upwards and caught him full on the chin, punting him upwards like a football.

The ground slammed into him hard, and the knee that dropped across his chest was brutal. He swung a fist in an attempt to bat away the weight that was pressing onto his ribs, but the weak attack was stopped as a chuckle echoed in his ears. He saw Blitz's face mere inches from his own, a wide smirk making his face seem almost manic. Two hands clamped onto his shoulders like the talons of a great eagle, and he saw pale sparks dance in the air once again, before the pain returned with a shock and a distant rumble.

His body was seized by painful convulsions, his limbs flopping and jerking on the ground like a fish on land, desperately trying to survive by flailing for water. His back arched upwards, lifting him onto his shoulders as his hip thrust high; then his snapped straight and his body jarred against the earth. He tasted blood as he bit his tongue.

_Do something,_ his spirit screamed at him and a hard spasm bashed his head against the ground. _It's your body damn it, do something._

He opened his mouth and bit onto his lips, gnawing his between his teeth. Pain sprang along the small cushion of flesh and he locked onto it focussing only on that little sensation and shutting all else out. He concentrated on the feel of the bite; only the pain that he himself had inflicted mattered, he was in control.

And with that thought he took command of his body again.

Ranma rolled onto his shoulders and struggled to move his legs, heaving them up between his chest and Blitz's. He tucked his knees in close and pressed the souls of his feet whose eyes widened, making his icy irises seem small suddenly. Ranma felt more power being poured into him, and his senses wavered but it was too late. With a mighty heave he kicked his legs straight, launching Blitz off of him and sending the man soaring high like a rocket.

Despite the protests of his body, Ranma rolled onto his hands and pushed himself onto his hands and knees. His stomach lurched and bile surged up into his mouth, but he swallowed it with a grimace and a gulp, the acid burning his throat.

He had to move now. The distant snapping of branches and crash of broken wood told him that he had flung Blitz far, but not far enough. Whatever that Coiling Dragon Death that the Bagua master had used was, it was powerful. Ranma knew he could not take many more of those, if any. The move seemed to require both of his foe's hand to be touching him, but with Blitz's speedy offence it would be easy for him to achieve such a position. He knew the blonde man would not give up.

But neither would he. He just needed to keep his distance and wait for the right opportunity.

Body racked with pain, Ranma leapt to the trees above. His jump faltered midway, but he kicked out with his legs against the trunk of a sturdy pine and scrabbled his way onto a branch before swinging his way to another higher up. Soon he was bounding from tree to tree, with jerky, but swift motions. Gaining the distance and time he needed before he met his enemy's lightning once again.

-

Ryoga blessed his breaking point training once again as he felt Brand's punches pound against his chest and abdomen. The red-haired man's fists were like hammers, and the blows were delivered with blurring speed, but gritting his teeth Ryoga knew that he could take it.

His balance was not as invulnerable as the force of Brand's strikes knocked him back, forcing him to stumble as he fought to stay on his feet. A tight punch slipped beneath his guard and jabbed hard into his flank making him wince, but he shrugged it aside as he swung his leg into a low roundhouse, whipping his shin into his opponents' upper thigh. Brand grunted and Ryoga took the opportunity to twist his hips behind a fierce uppercut.

His knuckles crashed into Brand's chin with enough force to lift him from his feet and send him reeling backwards.

Brand hit the floor with a muffled slap of his hand against the grass, tucking himself into a roll that lifted him to his knee.

Ryoga smirked as he watched the larger man rubs at his chin with the back of his hand, lips pulled back in a furious snarl. He felt his smile dissolve into a grimace as he tensed, his enemy bolting towards him.

With a growl Ryoga swung his arm outwards, bashing aside a kick that would have cleaved his head from his shoulders. His opponent stepped forward on to the recovered leg; pressing the offence by thrusting a stiff punch, which Ryoga just managed to block by dropping his elbow into the path of the fist. Brand grimaced as he knuckles smashed against the bone, and Ryoga swung his arm out in a wild arc, slamming a backfist into Brand's cheek.

Brand's face snapped around with the blow, red hair flickering around his head like a flame, but soon came swinging back with shoulder high. A tight but mighty hook crashed into Ryoga's face, knuckles pounding into his cheek. Stars flickered across his sight, but he blinked them clear poking his hand low in a short, jab to his foe's stomach.

Brand slumped forward with a groan, but his hands swung up and smashed around the sides of Ryoga's face like clashing cymbals. The lost boy's eyes crossed and his vision went blurry, his head whirling in his skull, but he forced himself through into clear thought. Brand had seized two fists full of his jerkin as yanked him forewards, driving a knee into his belly again and again.

Ryoga balled his hands into fists and clenched his teeth, tensing his abdomen into a wall of iron and letting the blows rain against him. He grimaced as each shot thudded against his hard muscles.

The onslaught stopped suddenly, and Ryoga felt his lips widen into a wide grin as he heard his opponent gasp a curse in Chinese. Bolting upright, his smirk bared his fangs as he saw Brand's jaw drop, eyes widening. Grabbing the scarlet-maned man's shoulder, he wrenched Brand around.

"Weak!" he roared as he thrust his fist into the man's face.

Brand shot backward, hitting the ground in a heap that slid back across the grass, digging furrows into the dirt. He sat up with a muffled groan, his eyes walls of blue fire as he glared across the battlefield. A thin trickle of blood slipped from his nostril as he crinkled his nose with a sniff.

"I thought you challenged me to a fight, not a tickling contest," Ryoga taunted, despite the dull throbbing that seemed to cover his torso.

Brand glared in response. He wiped the blood from his face and with a flcik of his fingers flung it to the ground in a scarlet spray in a scarlet spray, red droplets clinging to the grass.

"You're tough, I give you that," Brand said in acid tones as he gathered himself to his feet. "But you are a fool if you think that being able to take a punch makes you a warrior."

Ryoga snorted, "I'm not the one bleeding."

"You will be."

"Try it," Ryoga beckoned his foe with a crook of his fingers.

Brand thundered forwards like a cannonball, charging head on. Ryoga's muscles tensed but he forced his fist to his sides and thrust out his chest, determined to take his enemy's best shot.

Brand swung his arm back, winding his fist like a catapult and releasing his in a mighty haymaker that sang as it blitzed through the air. Then suddenly, just as the strike was about to land his fingers unfurled into an open palm.

Ryoga was sent sliding back on his heels from the force of the strike, his jaw aching where the flat of Brand's hand had slammed into him. Then he cried out and clamped both hands to the sides of his head, tears springing at the corner of his eyes as a bolt of intense pain blossomed in the centre of his mind as radiated outwards. It felt as if his skull had suddenly become too small for his brain, which expanded and pressed against the bones like a heated gas canister on verge of explosion. He shook his head from side to side wildly, hands clawing into his hair.

Another blow struck the centre of his chest and for a second his heart stopped, the absence of its percussive beat devastating. The power of the strike seemed to pass straight through him like a laser beam, burning him away from the insides. He did not fall back or recoil but simply dropped to his knees with a thud, his legs no longer holding the strength to keep him upright. His stomach convulsed and he coughed into his hand with a wet, bubbling noise. Tasting copper in his mouth his looked down to see tendrils of crimson fluid clinging to his fingers.

"I told you that you would bleed." Brand's soft words caressed his ears.

Ryoga felt a spasm run through him and he spat another thick wad of blood to the ground.

"Your head must be as hard and muscle bound the rest of you," he enemy said, walking around him in a languid circle. "What kind of idiot falls for a trap like that? What kind of moron actually stands there and takes a hit?"

Ryoga wrapped his arms around himself, pressing firmly on his stomach as if trying to hold his organs inside. "What the…." was all he could manage in a weak voice.

Brand came full circle, standing in front of him with one hand held before him. He seemed intensely fascinated by the marks and lines that wove across his own palm.

"Bagua Zhang," he pronounced in a deep, almost awed voice. "Eight Trigram palm. The greatest martial art ever devised. However many fools wonder why it is palm and not fist. Surely the fist is stronger, with its hard knuckles and compact, ridged surface." Brand's fingers curled in one by one, balling his hand until and he flicked his arm out, point towards Ryoga with his knuckles.

"Though strong in body, the fist is weak in spirit for it is closed. Ki can flow into the hand, providing more energy, more force to your punch; but it can go no further."

Ryoga remained on his knees, cradling his belly with both arms and breathing through gritted teeth, watching with a strange curiosity as his opponent unrolled his fingeres into a open hand, fingers held losoely together but splayed apart from the thumb in such a way as to deepen the hollow of his palm. He heard a small hiss, like a cobra spitting venom and felt a vibration of _something_ pulse into the air between them.

"The palm is not so limited," Brand said, continuing his mocking lecture. "For unlike the fist it is open to the world around it, and the world is open to it. The centre of the palm possesses a hole, a portal through which the true martial artist can release his energy into his foe. No matter how tough you are, my _friend_" that word a derisive slur, "you cannot withstand a blow that hits you from inside.

"This is a skill taught at the rudimentary levels of Bagua Zhang, the foundation of the martial art taught to mere novices. And today you face a master, you cannot win."

_Cannot win_, the words rumbled like thunder through Ryoga's pain clouded mind. Many had said the same to him, Shampoo, Akane himself. Fighting, training for revenge to beat the pigtailed phantom that haunted him, but he always lost. In the end he always had to quit the field. He felt his heart sink in his chest.

_Not like this_, he thought, tightening his jaw as his forced his body upwards, knees shuddering as he stood with agonising slowness. _Not on my knees. _He crossed his arms across his chest, letting his heavy soul fall into his belly, where he wrapped it into a tight ball.

"Shishi Hoko.." the words were expelled before they formed as Brand lunged forwards striking his palm towards Ryoga's heart. He barely managed to lift his crossed arm into the path of the attack, pain ribbing along his forearms as he was send sliding backwards, feet slicing into the grass.

"You Japanese idiot," Brand said softly. "Do you think I could not sense you gather power into your hara? I told you, I am a master of Bagua Zhang."

_A master_, Ryoga repeated silently. He had known of only one person to claim to be a master of the martial arts before, and Ryoga had never been able to touch that old dwarf. However, Ranma had defeated him once, with the Hiryu Shoten Ha, and had never given up since. That thought sobered Ryoga like a wave of cold ice; Ranma had never given up. _And I'll be damned if I can't do what Ranma does ten times better. _

Those palm strikes were powerful; Ryoga could still feel his arms throbbing from the last blow. He could not risk being struck in the chest or gut by such attacks again, the damage to his internal organs could be devastating, perhaps crippling. He would have to block. His arms would take a beating, but it would not be fatal and he had suffered bruised and torn muscles before, his arms always stronger after they had healed. At least this way he would still have a chance; toe to toe with his opponent.

A roar ripped from his throat as he charged, swinging his right hand across in a slicing ridgehand strike, eyes locked on his opponent, watching for the counter.

It came swiftly as Brand swerved to Ryoga's inside, cutting Ryoga's attack aside with the edge of his hand as he thrust a palm towards Ryoga's face.

Ryoga brought his guard up in a flash, tucking his chin into his shoulder as he covered his face with his forearm, wincing as the energy of his enemy's strike lanced along his bone. He recovered quickly by jumping forwards and brought his knee up in a tight arc that pounded on the red-haired man's side.

Brand stumbled to side, arms dropping as he wavered allowing Ryoga to bring his hand down in a hard chop, hacking into the sensitive muscle where the shoulder met the neck.

His enemy growled, face contorting into a grimace, but countered with explosive speed, lashing out with an uppercut that smacked into Ryoga's jaw before he could see more that a blue blur, his teeth clacked together as Brand's fist drove them into each other. He staggered back, falling victim to a swift palm to the ribs that made his side blaze.

_He's faster than I thought, _Ryoga thought bitterly as he was forced back by a flurry of blows, his legs working to backpedal out of the range of Brand's flashing palms. He slipped sideways as the larger man shifted, stepping along a circular path to come at Ryoga from the flank.

Ryoga pivoted, keeping his opponent to the front so that he could continue to guard. He brought his lead arm up in a sharp crescent, bashing aside an attacking arm with a powerful twist of his forearm before he flicked the limb down; using his elbow to snap his arm straight and knock away a palm strike that was rising low towards his belly.

He shot his rear hand into stiff cross, but his fist slapped wetly against the flesh of Brand's palm as he caught the blow cleanly and countered, a palm floating upwards like a rising clouds, but with much more force. Ryoga swept his hand down and grabbed the hand at the wrist before it could connect with the soft flesh beneath his chin.

Their eyes locked and narrowed, hazel green to blazes of blue. The air hazed and boiled in the mere handsbreadth of space between their faces. Each peeled back their lips to bare their teeth, Ryoga's fanged snarl almost feral as he returned Brand's tight lipped growl. He twisted his fist within Brand's palm, trying to free his hand whilst he tightened his grip on the other man's handwith vice-like fingers.

Both warriors struggled in each other's grasp, but were held fast by their monstrous strength. However like a shark that thrashed and bit beneath the calm surface of the water, the legs of each fighter kicked at battered at each other. Ryoga swung out with a quick sweep that flicked his enemy's foot from the grass but did not topple him. Brand responded by hacking at the lost boy's shinbone with the point of his boot.

With a shout Ryoga bunched his muscles and shoved with all his strength, driving his captured arm back with enough force to strike Brand with his own hand. The grip on his fist weakened, and he tore himself free, seizing hold of Brand's coat and twisting around until his hip bumped across his opponents. Pulling on Brand's wrist his twsited his handful of embroidered silk until his forearm was under Brand's armpit, allowing Ryoga to hoist the other man up and fling him over his shoulder like he was casting a javelin.

Brand rolled head over heels in the hair, landed with a thud on his back. Ryoga bolted down on his enemy, determined to seize on the advantage, raising his arm for a hammering blow.

His charge halted was his face was whipped around by Brand's foot as the Chinaman, rolled into a flailing kick.

Ryoga stepped back as he blinked rapidly trying to clear the swarming motes that danced over his vision. A stiff kick snapped into his gut but he gave no ground, bringing his hands up into a solid guard; tucking his fists at the sides of his chin, arm forming a wall over his torso.

Brand launched a volley of furious attacks; blow after blow splashed against Ryoga's forearms like waves in a storm, crashing upon the cliff face. It was as if the fiery-maned man had hidden extra limns that he now used to barrage Ryoga with fierce palm strikes. Clenching his jaw and stifling the wince that threatened to seep through his fangs he weathered the assault, shifting his waist to bring his shield in the path off every blow, covering himself from all angles. His arms felt like heated lead, a heavy weight that seemed to burn his nerves from the inside. He swore he could almost feel the bone melting.

Knowing he could not hold out much longer, he threw a blind punch through the first, tiny gap that he saw in the bombarding attacks. He joy at feel his knuckles slap hard against flesh and bone turned to sour, gut-wrenching pain as Brand slammed a palm into his floating ribs.

The air in his lungs burst from his mouth with a deluge of blood, his body folding like wet paper. Two hands clapped down on both shoulders with a jet of energy that drilled through his body and drove him to his knees. White lights flashed like fireworks as a knee drove into his face.

_Damn it, _Ryoga thought, pushing the pain aside and trusting his body to handle the blow. He reached up and grabbed Brand's leg as it was still grinding into his nose. With a growl his threw the leg back and fell forwards, stabbing a finger into the grass.

"BAKUSAI TENKETSU!"

The ground erupted in a geyser of dirt and grass. Ignoring the hammering chunks of earth that showered him, Ryoga closed his eyes and held his breath as a cloud of black soil rose in an explosive gout. He rolled out of the path of the blast, pressing one arm into the dirt as a pivot to swing his legs and body around in a sweeping half circle.

Rising behind Brand, he wrapped his arms around the larger man's waist and pressed himself close, moulding himself to his opponents' wide back as if embracing him. Tightening his grip like a closing noose his clasped his hands around both wrists and, rooting his feet into the earth, he hoisted his foe up and fell back wards like a felled tree. At the last moment his pressed down with his legs and bent his body into a crab-like arch, driving Brand's head into the ground.

Wasting no time after the suplex, Ryoga threw his hips to the side and scooted from beneath the other man. Taking hold of Brand's wrist he slid beneath the arm and brought both of his legs crashing down, one across the chest and the other across the throat, the captured limb held tight between his thighs. Pulling back and lifting his hips, Brand's arm was yanked straight, elbow bending backwards over Ryoga's pelvis.

Brand snarled and writhed like a wolf caught in a bear trap. Ryoga could feel the man's biceps bunching against his thigh and the tendons corded beneath his fingers as the Chinese fighter struggled to escape. He free arms clawed and pounded at Ryoga's legs, trying to shift their weight from pinning him to the ground.

Ryoga leaned back, applying more pressure into the armbar, paralysing Brand with pain. The man's movement halted as the joint was displaced, the elbow forced along an unnatural direction.

"Give up, or I'll break it," Ryoga said, biting out each words.

Brand just glowered, the blue fires so intense they were like twin cerulean suns. "Let me go," he hissed.

"Apologise for calling me a pervert, and I'll think about it." Ryoga arched his back, forcing his hips against Brand's vulnerable joint.

"You'll let me go now."

A foul, brunt stench filled Ryoga's nostrils, making his nose twitch. Then searing pan blazed through his legs as if a branding iron had been clamped onto the flesh of his calf. Eyes wide, he saw smoke rising from where Brand's free hand gripped his leg, thin whispy tendrils wafting from between his fingers.

With a screech Ryoga dropped the arm he had trapped and pushed himself into a backwards roll, gaining distance by tumbling back over his shoulders until he was sitting, legs out-stretched, four paces from his foe.

He gawped, his mouth hanging open, at the calf that was sending searing screams of pain through his muscles. A twisted, deformed hole had torn the fabric of his pants and the bindings he had wound around hems of his trousers hanging in tatters, the threads blackened and curled at the charred tips. Through the scorched hole he could see his flesh glowing red and smeared with blood, the skin peeling away like wood shavings.

"The breaking point?" his opponent said, rising to his feet. "I admit that I have underestimated you." Glaring at Ryoga, he gripped the gilded cuff of his coat and rolled his sleeve up past his elbow. "I was just going to beat you up for seducing my sister, however, since you don't look like a civil engineer to me…" He repeated the action with the other sleeve. "I can no longer go easy on you."

The air resonated with a sudden pulse and Brand's right arm was suddenly wreathed in scarlet fire. Flicking orange fingers writhed and pulsated around his arm yet the man's face was impassive, ominously cast in dark shadows and wavering light. He outstretched the fire-clad hand slowly and the air before him began to shimmer and warp as if stirred.

Ryoga pushed himself into a crouch, face screwing into a grimace as heat seemed to be reborn in his leg. He tensed, pulse racing in his ears,

Fire belched from Brand's palm, wild streams of crimson flames that shot from his fist. The threads of flame wound about each other, twisting themselves into a tight spiral and forming a thick bar of fire that streaked towards Ryoga.

Ryoga threw himself onto his shoulder and rolled to the side as the stream of hot plasma scorched the ground he had knelt upon. The earth turned to a crater of blackened dirt and twisted husk of charred grass, small flames still burning.

"Kasen Dan." Brand swept his hand in a fast arc and five thin bolts of flame, like flickering red missiles, fanned out from his hands.

Ryoga flung himself aside into a one handed handspring that launched him back at an angle as the fire arrows hit the ground with a string to tiny explosions. He landed with his hand up defensively, but his stance wavered as his burnt leg roared blossomed with pain, echoed by his left arm. With a panicked cry he slapped his hand repeatedly against his shoulder, beating out the fire eating through his jerkin.

His gnawed at his bottom lip with his fangs, shudders running through his body until his muscles seemed to resonate. His knees rattled, cold streaks shot up his back and his jaw shivered as he breathed. His throat stung as he swallowed reflexively, his mouth having gone dry and sticky.

_That fire_ he thought, as he pictured the twisting beams of flames that Brand has used against him. _Saffron used that attack! _His body quivered again, a more violent tremor running down his spine.

-

The launched themselves at each other, rising from their perches and flying into the air and clashing in a flurry of fists and feet. Ranma slammed a hard right into Blitz's face, feeling the cheek give beneath his knuckles. It kept on giving however, as his opponent spun with the attack, turning his body faster than the punch, weakening the impact.

Ranma gasped as Blitz used his turn to bring his knee swinging into his kidneys. He clapped both hands to his side as the impact rolled him in the air.

Still spinning Blitz brought other leg over in an arc, smashing the heel down into Ranma's spine and sent him plummeting to the ground below like a bomb, the forest shaking with the impact.

The breath seemed to explode in his chest as the ground slammed into his back like a freight train. The earth seemed to turn to powder as he hit the ground, a cloud of fine dirt rising like smoke, then fall back on to his face forcing him to scrunch his eyes closed against the showering soil.

Gritting his teeth he rolled out of the crater his landing had dug into the earth and pushed himself onto his hands and knee, spitting out a mouthful of foul tasting dirt. He lifted his head, wiping his chin on the back off his sleeve as he glared at his smirking foe that stood, perched on the swaying tip of a branch as if it were a pedestal just for him. His arms were folded across his chest, his lips curled in that same, crooked smile.

_Arrogant jerk, _Ranma thought as he leapt onto the bough of an opposing tree.

His muscles raged in protest and he slipped as he landed, forcing him to bend down and grab the branch to secure his grip. _I can't take much more_, he thought in a rush, his mind feeling an echo from the pain of Blitz's electrocution attack.

He could feel the the air grow denser, heat shifting around the warriors. However he knew it was useless to him, there was no way he could form the spiral dance amongst the densly crowded tree, not with Blitz hunting him. _I bet that's why the bastard knocked me in here, damn him._

A wild roar snapped him back to his situation and he leapt high as Blitz crashed down from above, leg slicing through the branch his hand crouched on as Ranma gripped the one above their heads. Flipping around, fingers burning on the rough bark, he spun on the branch like a trapeze before launching himself straight down, both knees slamming down on Blitz's head.

Blitz fell and Ranma streaked after him, straightening himself into descending arrow.

His eyes widened as he watched his foe take control of his fall, tucking himself into a ball and spinning end over end. The blonde man landed on his feet with barely a whisper on the ground and shot himself back up like a bullet.

Ranma tried to snap his arms up to block but Blitz just powered through, his arm slipping beneath Ranma's crossed arms to slam into the pigtailed boys face with a rising uppercut, sending him floating upwards, blood streaming from his mouth.

"Niryu Happa Shou."

The two palms strikes slammed rapidly into his chest and seemed to detonate; hurtling Ranma back through the air. He crashed and snapped through twigs, wooden fingers clawing through at his face and hands.

_Got you now, you bastard, _Ranma thought as he threw his head back and spun backwards. Now flying feet first he pulled his torso into his knee, compressing his body like a spring. The souls of his feet met a branch and he squeezed himself smaller as the bough flexed beneath him. The wooden limb swayed back, yielding to Ranma's momentum but not breaking, absorbing the energy into its bend. Then it lashed forwards like a whip with a snapping noise that cracked the air, and flung its cargo like a trebuchet stone.

Ranma could hear the air tear as he was catapulted forward. His braid trailed behind him like a streamer and the torn fabric of his clothes flapped and swayed around his body, the fierce blast of the wind ripping his shirt open as he sliced through the air.

He watched Blitz's eyes widen and the blood drain from his face and smirked.

_Damn right, jerk, _he thought as he pushed himself into a spin as he closed in on his foe, adding spiralling power to his body as he channeled all of the immense energy from his air splitting motion into one, mighty blow.

"RYUSEI KYAKU!"

His foot lashed into Blitz's chest with force that could shatter the mountain, and Ranma felt the wet splatter of his enemy's saliva as it was forced from his belly. Then with a scream, Blitz was sent flying backwards, felling tree as he was sent smashing through the trunks, the repeated impacts barely hindering his momentum before he disappeared into the dark forest.

"Got you," Ranma whispered and he landed in a crouch on a tree. Then his vision wavered and blurred as a wave of nausea hit his body. Reeling he tumbled to the floor.

_Shit_, he thought as blackness seeped in.

Lifting a hand he brought whipping into his face with all the strength he could muster. _C'mon, Saotome_, he cried harshly to himself,_ Get up damn it. _He slapped himself again trying to drive back the blanket of unconsciousness that threatened to engulf him.

_Get up!_

"Kasen Dan"

Ryoga flexed the muscles of his legs to power him into the air, leaping up as the long darts of blazing fire streaked beneath his feet. With a snarl he twisted his body round in a hard roundhouse kick as he descended towards his foe, forcing the fire master to raise both hand in defense. The kick bounced harmlessly off the wall Brand has formed with forearm and hand, the ball of his foot smacking against his palm. Ryoga landed in a crouch but rose quickly with an uppercut that dug from the outside, into his opponent's ribs like a shovel.

Brand grunted but struck back and Ryoga leapt back to dodge the hooking, flame clad hand that swung across his body. Then he was forced to dive to the floor and roll rapidly to extinguish the fire that hand fallen onto his clothes.

"Bastard," Ryoga growled as he rose to a tense crouch as he regarded his enemy with narrowed eyes. _If I stay close, he fries me with flaming fists but if I keep at a distance he grills me with those fire blast., Either way I'm cooked. _He shuddered, the situation brushing against a fear he had carried since the day he had walked from Jusenkyou a cursed man.

Inhaling a deep breath he steeled himself, one hand reaching towards the knot of his bandanas.

A sudden crash whipped his head around as a body came hurtling from the forest, breaking through trees before it hit the ground like a fallen star, digging a deep furrow into the earth and raising a tidal wave of dirt before it as it slid to a stop.

"Blitz?" Brand cried, taking a sudden step forwards before halting his eyes turned with a glare towards Ryoga, who gawped heedlessly at the scene.

It was Blitz.

The blonde man lay in a crater, his clothes smeared with mud, his hair a tangled mess, spikes sticking out from his head at all angles. With a loud groan that emphasised the grimace on dirt caked face, eyes squinting and teeth clenched, he dug two hands into the ground and pushed them straight. He hefted his torso upright and was seized by a fit of coughs, mud streaming in drips of saliva from his lips and his shoulders racked with each dry heave.

A faint snap made all eyes flash back to the dense blanket of trees as Ranma tottered out, his steps slow and unsteady as he staggered a few paces right before stumbling left, weaving an unsteady path. His arms hung at his sides as if they were cast from lead, shoulders rising and falling with the ragged breath he pulled through his slack, panting mouth. His shirt hung open, blackened scorch marks marring the red silk, and a myriad of other nicks and tear were bitten from his sleeves and pants. One eye was heavy lidded, drooping half shut as he inched forward on his wobbling feet but he still wore the same smirk of pride that Ryoga had seen many times before, and it still made the other boy glow in a way that galled him.

It dropped from his lips as Blitz pushed himself onto his knee, his body trembling and his suave demeanour lost as he roared, spittle flying from his mouth.

The soil exploded around him in a ring of flying dust, like a blast of silent thunder. His aura blazed into sight, writhing around him like a white haze and stricken with forks of pale blue lightening.

" Blitz you fool, " Brand yelled to his brother in Chinese. " It'll hit us all ."

Blitz made no response but spread his arm wide like wings, crackling bolts snapping around his fingers and giving him feathers of lightning.

" Shit, " Brand cursed and turned to fling himself to the ground, burying his head beneath his arms.

_This must be bad,_ Ryoga thought. "RUN, RANMA!" he yelled to the pigtailed boy before imitating his opponent and throwing his himself for cover.

-

Ranma had began back-pedaling for the forest as he watched the energy around Blitz crack and burn the air, unwilling to take his eyes off of his enemy but knowing he could not stay where he was. Yet his muscles were worn and exhausted, they protested each movement, until he knew he was too late and he braced himself, throwing his crossed arms infront of his face.

"JINRAI SENKOU!"

There was a great roar as if he was enveloped by thunder, the screaming of the air coming from all around him. Then there was the sound of rushing air filling his ears.

White light consumed everything.

**To be continued**

**AN- **Okay so here's where I cover my arse from all sides.

Firstly I am not a homophobe nor do I have anything against homosexuals or homosexuality or endorse the use of derogatory phrases. The angry build up between Blitz and Ranma was just following from simple logic. The main influence on Ranma's life and his opinion was Genma "raise my son to be a man-amongst-men" Saotome, and the panda does not seem the most tolerant type concerning such things, and so I doubt he would raise he son to be, and Ranma would have picked his opinion up at an early age. In fact based on the series no one in the manga/show seems to have a particularly fair opinion of homosexuality anyway.

Also I've portrayed Blitz as a bit of a player (in his own mind at least) and he bases much of his identity and pride on that. How do you expect him to feel after he finds out he hit on a guy? And in true Takahashi style, it must be someone elses fault, usually Ranma's.

Secondly I am not plagarising Naruto by having Brand use palm strikes to strike from within. That is an essential part of Bagua Zhang, the martial art Kishimoto Masashi also used for his inspiration for the Hyuuga Jyuuken style (eg. Neji's Hakkeshou Kaiten – Hakkeshou is the Japanese word for Bagua Zhang.)

That done, I hope you all enjoyed the chapter, please let me know what you thought of the fight scene since it's the biggest one yet and took a lot of work.

Thanks for reading.

Beer-monster

**Glossary**

**Naihanchi Nidan: '**To stand upon uneven ground: second level', the second kata in the Naihanchi series, which expands and emphasises the combat principles of the Naihanchi style. Incorporated into the Anything-Goes school but less practised as Soun Tendo would often move to more advanced kata after teaching Naihanchi Shodan.

**Noopan: '**No panties;' and original kata of Anything-Goes school of martial arts created by Grandmaster Happosai and emphasising swift, speedy strikes. It is named for the original training method, stealing the panties from girls without being caught.

**Niryu Happa Shou: **'Two-dragon exploding palm' an advanced technique of Bagua Zhang taught in the Thunder forms of the Eight Masters. Two palm strikes delivered in rapid succession produce an explosive blast that launches the opponent away.

**Niryu Maku Satsu: **'Two-dragon coiling death' another technique of the Thunder form, where the master uses both hands to channel electric current into an opponent.

**Kasen Dan: **'Fire Arrow Bullets' a technique of the Fire form of Bagua Masters. Several small bolts of flame are formed and launched at the opponent.

**Ryusei Kyaku: **'Shooting star kick' a technique of the Anything Goes school of martial arts where great momentum is gathered by elastic collisions and focussed into a powerful kick attack.

**Jinrai Senkou: **'Thunderclap flare' a desperation technqiue of the Thunder form.


	6. The Flashes of the Fists

_**Honour And Pride**_

By Beer-Monster

**Book II: The Eight Phases**

**Chapter Six**

**The Flashes of the Fists**

The room was filled with a muted, blue gloom, bare halos of light glowing around the fins of the shutters. Black shadows clung to the rim of the high ceiling where the weak fingers of light could not reach. The powerful scent of liptus and menthol hung thick in the air of the small space, the sting of them threatening to make Cloud's eyes water.

He never so much as blinked, unwilling to take his eyes from the panting woman who lay swaddled in thick blankets despite the sweat forming a pale sheen over her skin. Head bowed as he sat at the bedside, he ran his thumb over the clammy hand he held clasped in his larger grip, feeling the contours of her bones far more prominently than he knew he should; and though he watched her breathe, trying to find comfort in the fall and swell of her breast, the sound of the air as it rattled through her lungs held all such relief at bay. A shiver ran through him that had nothing to do with the chill wind that clattered the shutters.

The woman convulsed, a low moan escaping through her lips, its sound clutching at Cloud's stomach like talons. He leant over her folding back the layer of blanket she had thrown aside with her abrupt movement. The stale stench of her clawed at his nostrils, pangs lancing within him with the distant memories of the once sweet, floral scent of her perfume. Hair that had once been the colour of sunlight now clung to her face in limp, straggling strands that he brushed aside, his hands trembling with restraint as he drowned in the all-too-real fear that he would break her. His touch slid across the waxy skin of her brow and his fingers ached to run across the silky smoothness of her once again.

"Locke, is the medicine ready?" he asked, pulling a small cloth from the bedside, gently wiping a small patch of saliva that had congealed at the corner of her lip. "And what is making that infernal buzzing," he groaned, rubbing at the bridge of his nose as a sound, like the droning of a thousand furious wasps, scraped at his skull.

He received no answer, the buzzing seeming to grow stronger in the silence. His hand clenched into a fist around the small handkerchief as he turned to face the hunched figure in the corner of the small room. "Locke, the medicine," he snapped.

Locke did not turn his way, the old man's face looking more ancient and gnarled as he frowned, his brow knitted into crinkled furrows with his long whiskery eyebrows falling against his wrinkled cheeks. His pale grey eyes were narrowed, deep lines creasing at the corners, as his gaze passed through the walls and seemed to be lost in some distant place. His hands hung frozen above the mortar and pestle that he had been diligently working at, the powdered herbs still clinging to his fingertips.

"Do you feel that?" he said softly, his voice like the wind rustling through old, autumn leaves.

"I feel that Tyde needs her medicine," Cloud drawled through grit teeth, "and I feel desperate for an end to that damned buzzing." He pinched the bridge of his nose as the sound grew deeper.

"Buzzing?" Locke muttered, turning on Cloud with wide, almost gawping eyes. "Open your senses, you fool. Feel."

Cloud grimaced, his hand twitching tight at the chastising tone the old master used, as if he were a child. 'Feel', he had said, sounding too much like the wise figure from so many bad movies. How was he expected to feel anything when his heart lay wrapped in blankets on the bed beneath him, wasting away? If he opened his senses all he would feel was the teetering flow of the illness that sapped at her life energy.

He saw Locke's brows lower, thin mouth pressing into a tight line. Those grey eyes were hard and severe as Cloud met the old man's stare, slowly realising that he did not hear the buzzing, he sensed it. Clenching his teeth, he cast a quick glance at Tyde - taking a second to absorb her pale features and feel the knots tying in his belly, as he let his walls slide down.

It was not sight, nor could he smell or hear anything but he felt it; not in the way that you feel icy winds chill your skin or the heat of a fire prickles at your palms, but something deeper. It was like music, not the sound that trembles against your ears but rather those sensations that stir as the melody sinks into your soul. However, this was instant, trained into his instincts by meditation and sweat, as natural to him as taste or touch.

He felt four songs crash and collide together, blending and struggling with each other to a wild tempo for a place in a grander concerto. He could feel the familiar timbres of the eight phases like the instruments in an orchestra, the song of fire raging furiously as thunder lanced through like the streak of a violin, overlaying the softer measures of heaven and earth, wind and mountain. Through those were woven four melodies; two as familiar as his own heartbeat, one a sombre tune shot with blasts of angry chords, and the last a triumphant fanfare of wildly changing pace but still strumming onwards with a proud beat. The songs merged and jangled, superposing across each other into a powerful symphony, a hymn of battle.

"What the hell are…?"

The words slipped from his mind as he felt the music peak into a crescendo, the sensations stirring before spiking into a burst of energy like the crashing of cymbals.

Tyde jerked in her bed as if shocked, air rattling as it rushed into her lung and the blanket fell away as her body arched on her shoulders. Then a chorus of harsh, spluttering coughs burst forth as her form folded, head and legs jumping from the bed like a grounded fish as each breath erupted unnaturally from her mouth.

Cloud was aware of his jaw dropping, the music falling away as his heart seemed to twist in his chest. He watched his love writhe on the bed, the world seeming to slow as if each second was lingering to torture him with the gut-wrenching sight before him.

A loud, wooden thud seemed to echo like a cannon shot across his mind as he watched her head bounce off the headboard of the bed. His mind seemed to flare into the present and he was moving before his brain formed the thought, leaping on to the bed and straddling the tossing figure. He wrapped his arms around her, hand tangling in her hair that was coated in wet, sticky warmth. The muscles of his arms strained as he fought against the spasm of her muscles and held her to his chest, feeling the warm breath of her cough blast against his chest. He sat back on his ankles, pressing his weight to still her knees.

_She needs air, but I can't let her go or she'll hurt herself, _he gritted his teeth and stuffed away the tension that gnawed at his gut.

"Locke, do something!" he cried, twisting his head to glance at the old master whilst he struggled to keep Tyde safe in his grip. The small man was rattling at his table in his corners, hands flashing faster then the deep veins on his fingers would suggest, flinging powders and leaves into a pot and splashing steaming water into cups.

"LOCKE!" Cloud yelled, feeling the moistness of the woman's breath through his silk tunic. "WE HAVE NO TIME! DO SOMETHING!" He scowled at the crumbling bark in the other man's hand, recognising the ingredients of the sedative he often used.

Locke swore, throwing down the bark as his mouth bit at the curse. He moved to the bedside in a flash, gnarled fingers blurring as he jabbed them across Tyde's arm, then her spine, and ending by pushing his thumb to the base of her skull.

She sagged in Cloud's arms instantly, breath rushing out of her. He held her still, her weight pressed against him as her breathing slowed to a deep, but regular rhythm, before he laid her back onto the pillow, the fabric soon becoming red with the blood from her head wound.

"I wish I didn't have to do that," Locke said in a tired voice, his slender form slumping against the walls as he frowned at the bed. "Her ki is unstable and turbulent; manipulating her meridians with shiatsu could be dangerous if done too much."

"What happened," Cloud asked, almost wincing at the waver he heard in his own voice.

Locke's eyes closed as he shook his head, his features looking ancient. "She is still one of us, Cloud; open to the Tao and the flow of energy around us; but in her weakened state she is vulnerable. The battle on the mountain is influencing her already unstable energy flow."

The old man turned, eyes gazing through the shutter, watching the slats glow as they were lit by a blast of incandescent light. "The fools," he said softly.

Cloud barely heard him, his hands shuddering as he swabbed at the crimson stain that splattered his silk tunic. He saw similar spots of red shining wetly on his lover's lips and he gazed at the smear on his hand.

The pots exploded with a cloud of powdered herbs as he snapped his hand into a quivering fist.

Everything was white.

Ranma slowly let his muscles loosen and his fingers uncurl, bracing from an impact that had never come. The explosion and blast of pain that he had expected had never occurred; there was no wall of ki force or streaks of electricity. Nothing but whiteness and the sound of rushing air and a distant sea echoing in his ears

He frowned and blinked, the action bringing a small stinging pain but the white still consumed his vision, as if the world had been swallowed by a maw of light. He rubbed at his eyes and turned his head slowly, but all around him was the same featureless blank. There were not even shades or motes of colour, simply nothing. If it were not for the sense of hard earth beneath his feet he could have believed he was flying, for the wind seemed to sing around him like it did inside a seashell. The scent of ozone hung in the air, crisp and clean like after a storm

_What the hell was that move? _he wondered, remembering the crackling bolts of energy that coruscated around Blitz's arms._ All that flash and no bang?_ he frowned; _maybe the blast knocked me out before I felt it? _

He took a slow step forwards and the pain that lanced through his muscles and bones countered that theory. Ranma was very conscious, the lull bringing back the screaming protests of his body that had been lost beneath a surge of adrenaline and the heat of battle. His lungs blazed in his chest as he sucked in air, the laboured pants leaving his jaw hanging slack. He was surprised that he could move the joints of his arms as they felt carved from stone, pulling at his tired shoulders with a heavy aching. The knuckles of his right fist stung fiercely from the pounding they took during his use of the chestnut fist. Even gritting his teeth was an effort, but he forced himself to move forwards on legs that wobbled from the strain of holding him up.

He never saw the blow coming; the white void that surrounded him gave no sign or even flickered as something ploughed into his belly like a train wreck. He could feel his eyes widen as they bulged in their sockets, but there was no change to what he saw. His throat convulsed as he spluttered, spitting out a bitter mouthful of saliva and bile.

Ranma knew he was still conscious; he could feel every knuckle on the fist that slammed into his face.

-------------------------

Ryoga sucked in a lungful of air and held it tight, swallowing the lump that clung painfully in his throat, before he slowly let his head rise and took a glance at the battlefield. The hands that he had wrapped protectively over his head dropped to the grass as he started, mouth hanging open as he surveyed the lack of change. Despite the surging power unleashed, the clap of thunder that had scorched the air and the wave of tingling heat that he had felt pass over him, setting the hairs of his arms quivering on end, nothing seemed to have changed.

The slope of once lush grass was still marked with charred streaks of black from the fury of Brand's summoned flames. The craters and furrows of their fight still scarred the earth where he had matched strength with the Lord of Fire. Blitz still stood in the pit he had carved into the ground when he had crashed from the forest, his blonde hair spiking at messy angles, blue eyes sparking with a dangerous light despite the dirt smeared across his angled face. Ranma still stood at the focus of the man's furious gaze, panting heavily and tottering on fatigued legs but otherwise unfazed by the blast that had been sent towards him.

A shuffling sound from behind him made Ryoga jump to his knees, ignoring the aches his battered and burnt muscles responded to the motion with. His body tensed as he recognised his opponent Brand, gathering himself into a squat, dark red curls hanging haggard over his brow. The man rubbed at his shoulder, brushing futilely at the clods of mud that marred the blue silk of his coat, his eyes fixed on the figures across the plain and his lips curved into a sly grin.

Whipping his head around, arms still raised towards his foe, he watched Blitz begin to approach Ranma. The blonde man's steps were unsteady at first, wobbling along a zigzag path as he stepped from his crater. His gait became more firm and picked up speed with every step, his lips peeling back over snarling teeth as he slipped his sleeveless robe, embroidered with glittering dragons, from his shoulders and slung it aside.

Some itchy sensation began to build in Ryoga's chest, his fists shifting against each other as he noticed that Ranma had not reacted to the encroaching thread. The other boy was not even looking at Blitz; his blue grey eyes seemed glassy and vacant as they stared at some distant point to his left. The pigtailed youth's hands hung at his sides, not even rising defensively as he turned his head, slowly passing his gaze across and over the seething Master of Thunder. He never even twitched before Blitz drove a fist into his stomach, forcing him to fold and retch onto the grass before another blow struck him across the face.

"Your friend has lost," the man behind him pronounced in a haughty tone.

Ryoga's jaw tightened, his fangs pressing into his bottom lip as he spun, a growl rumbling low in his throat. He pushed against the ground with a heave of his leg muscles, diving onto the red-haired man and knocking him to the dirt, seizing his lapels in his fists.

"What did he do," he hissed between grit teeth, heaving Brand's face closer to him

His only answer was a dark scowl from the Chinese fighter, and the sensation of massing heat. _Shit, I forgot about his flames. _Ryoga's eyes widened as he caught a flash of orange in his peripheral vision and he threw himself off of the other man, rolling clear as a fire-wrapped fist clove through space he had occupied. Pain screamed as the hand glanced against his thigh, the flames licking at him through his pants.

Coming up from his roll, Ryoga posted an arm against the ground with a slap, swinging his leg around so that he came to a rest facing Brand on one knee. He glared at his rising foe over his guarding fists, ignoring the thin trail of smoke that wafted from the scorched material that clung to his outstretched front leg.

Brand squatted on his haunches, his weight supported by the hand that dug into the dirt before him. Small sparks of red and yellow flames danced over the fingers of his other hand as he rubbed them together, orange light flickering across his smirking face.

"The martial arts of Emei began as health exercises, much as the kung fu of the Shaolin monks," he said in a voice that seemed to echo his mocking smile. "They were simply breathing techniques designed to allow a person to synchronise the flow of energy within their body with that of the world around them.

"However, what is now China was a land plagued by conflict that often threatened to spill onto the mountain and its people; thus the Order of the Tao used their techniques to defend themselves. Though the power of ki can be dangerous and can easily be used to maim or cripple, methods of defeating a large number of enemies without harming them became much sought after. Such soft-hearted nonsense led to the creation of techniques that aimed to disrupt the senses of one or whole armies of aggressors. After all, who can attack what they can not see, or hurt who they can not hear?"

Ryoga almost choked on his gasp, wide eyes flicking a glance to the two fighters on the other side of the battlefield. Ranma was on his feet, stumbling desperately to the side as he cast a panic-filled gaze to his left as Blitz's foot came crashing in from the right.

"You blinded him," Ryoga snarled at the red-haired man, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists tighter.

"I doubt he can hear much either, but the effect is temporary. I'm sure his senses will be fine once he wakes up." The man's eyes narrowed. "I thought that you were rivals. What do you care anyway, you should be more worried about yourself." The small flame flickering over Brand's finger tips grew and spread across his hand until it formed a gauntlet of writhing scarlet.

"Ranma may be a jerk, a pervert, and a womaniser who has put me through hell and does not deserve a fraction of what he has," Ryoga said softly, brows lowering beneath his bandana as flashes of many skirmishes and battles with the pigtailed menace shot through his mind like leaves caught in a storm. "But, as much as I hate to say it, he is a skilled martial artist. Even he deserves better."

His eyes picked up a flicker of crimson in the distance, as Blitz whipped the back of his fist across Ranma's face sending a trail of blood flying from the boy's mouth. Another memory stuck him, an image of weakened Ranma struggling against the chains that bound his arms as a bokken was brought crashing against his skull. "You've made him helpless," Ryoga growled, baring his fangs as he rose to his feet. "I can't stand those who pick on the helpless."

Brand snorted, "Noble sentiments from a pervert who tries to seduce naive local girls." The flame-haired man flung the words out harshly despite Ryoga's scowl. "However, I hope you are not thinking of interfering with my brother's duel, because you will find it impossible after I have finished with you."

Ryoga's eye narrowed as his hands clawed at the air, slowly forming trembling fists. "If you will not get out of my way," he said in a hushed whisper, his voice a low, feral rumble in his throat, "then I will go through you." Those last words roared from his mouth as he shot forwards, heels churning the grass beneath him like the hooves of a charging horse.

"Idiot," Brand hissed. He thrust out his hand and the fire leapt forth, forming a bar of orange flame that belched from his palm like dragon's breath.

_Idiot_, Ryoga swore, echoing his opponents statement as he felt the heat wash across his skin, The orange flare filled his vision, seeming to swarm and expand until his instincts screamed at him and he snatched control of his momentum from his blind rush, throwing himself to the side. The fire tore past his shoulder as he dodged, his wavering balance forcing him to stagger.

Taking advantage of the stagger, Ryoga pushed hard against the dirt with his left leg, reversing his motion and allowing him to leap at his foe from the flank.

The surge of fire vanished as Brand closed his fist, gritting his teeth as he glared at Ryoga from the corners of his eyes. Crossing his forearms, he dropped to one knee as Ryoga's leg split the air above his head.

Growling as the red-haired man ducked beneath his kick, Ryoga let gravity bring him back to the ground. Raising his arm high, he swung it crashing down as he landed, a kiai ripping from his throat. His opponent circled to the left as the strike descended and the fall brought Ryoga's fist hammering into the ground, punching a crater into the dirt amidst a cloud of dust and rock.

His eyes snapping closed as his strength powdered the earth beneath his fist, Ryoga could not defend himself as Brand shoved a knee into his chin. His teeth jarred against each other and white sparks flashed through his head, but he tightened his jaw and let his body absorb the blow, the impact almost a caress compared to the sensation of a boulder slamming into you.

Allowing his eyes to open, a thin squint at first, Ryoga wrapped both arms around the attacking leg. He shoved himself forwards, barging his shoulder against Brand's supporting thigh as he heaved the captured leg upwards.

It was a testament to Brand's skill that he did not fall, staggering backwards with the throw to keep control of his balance. However the stumble was enough distraction to allow Ryoga to rise and torque his body into a short hook punch, knuckles digging into Brand's left kidney and forcing the other man to cry out, his body bowing as he clutched his side with both arms.

Ryoga reached out and grabbed a handful of the older man's lapel in his right fist, yanking forwards as he twisted his body. He took a hold of Brand's sleeve with the other hand and stepped into a tight spin, thrusting out with his hip to heave his foe to the floor.

Brand shot out a stiffened arm, jamming the hip and halting his motion. Another hand pressed against Ryoga's shoulder, pushing hard to force some space between the panting bodies of the two combatants.

Ryoga snarled at his opponents, glowering through narrowed eyes as he fought against Brand's pressing arms, muscles bunching beneath his coarse, yellow jerkin. The other man smirked, though his jaw bunched behind the smile. Then the image wavered in Ryoga's vision, the air seeming to warp and twist as it filled with an acrid smell. Eyes widening he glanced down to see tongues of fire creep from between Brand's callused fingers and begin to smoulder, black smoke forming thin trails as he felt the heat seep through his clothes.

With a panicked squawk, Ryoga hopped back, batting away the fiery hands. He patted his hands at his jerkin and pants, ash crumbling from the charred fabric. A flash of blue blurred on the fringe of his vision, and he shot his head up to see the fire master lunge at him with a fierce kick. Brand's booted heel slammed into his sternum and the force tore him off his feet, launching him backwards.

The wind was driven from his lungs as he landed hard on his shoulders; his momentum carried his legs onwards and over his head flipping him onto his stomach in a heap. His body felt like lead, his arms quivering with the effort it took to push himself onto his knees. The stifled air left in his chest spluttered from his mouth in a weak cough, the action making his battered ribs throb with pain. Other parts of his body seemed to pulse with heat with his every heart beat, the feeling tingling across his skin as if it were bubbling. Ryoga recognised the sensation as nasty, but still thankfully minor burns, burns that required treatment.

His eyes flickered from his opponent to the two figures in the distance, the blonde crest of Blitz easily discernable against the background as he dealt a hard kick to Ranma's thigh, dropping the pigtailed boy to his knees where he was struck by a languidly idle backhand.

Ryoga's fingers dug furrows into the dirt as he clawed at the ground, lips curling over his clenched fangs.

The sight of Ranma lying on the dirt beaten, face screwed into a grimace as a kick was jabbed into his flank, was not unfamiliar to Ryoga. He had pictured it his own mind since was he was thirteen, longed for it, a dream that he wished to be made solid. Now that it was real, rendered in bruised flesh and spilt blood, Ryoga's mind fought against the image, rejecting it with an almost feral fury. His brain could not accept the floundering boy he saw on his knees as the skilled rival he had sworn he would defeat. The panic that was painted across his face as vacant eyes tried to find his enemy, arms covering his head like the paws of a beaten dog. That was not Ranma Saotome, he told himself, that was the weak, pitiful stranger he had once seen bearing the mark of a moxibustion burn. Seeing his nemesis reduced to that state, had set his blood boiling once before and now he could feel it stirring once again.

Locking his glare back on his red-haired opponent; Ryoga grit his teeth as he tried to ignore the pained complaints of his abused muscles and jarred bones. His only comfort was that Brand seemed to be in a similar state, hunched shoulders heaving as he panted through his open mouth. One arm was still wrapped across his body, clutching his kidney as the other hung heavily at his side and his stance was tilted, his weight favouring his right leg.

His body screamed at him as he rose to his feet; he could feel his knees wobble as they were forced to support more and more of his body weight. His own heartbeat thundered in his ears as he watched the Chinese fighter; both of them were hurting, it galled Ryoga to think it but it could not be denied. Despite that, he knew that the other man could and would continue to fight, and Ryoga would oblige. After years of defeat at Ranma's hands, Ryoga simply could not accept loss by any other hand, nor could he stand his rival to be beaten by such a low tactic, especially after he had sworn not use such methods himself.

The battle would continue and Ryoga knew that even this short respite would not last much longer; the flashing blue fire he could see smouldering in Brand's eyes promised a furious assault.

He was at a disadvantage; he had seen and fought in enough duels to recognise this, though he felt his lips twist as the thought. The power of Brand's fire attack had him cornered, the blasts of flame the Bagua master threw at him made it near suicidal to remain at a distance, but the fiery gauntlets that the man summoned at will made it impossible to close the distance into hand to hand combat, despite Ryoga's yearning to face the man toe-to-toe.

_Damn it, if only I had my umbrella_.

Ryoga scowled, the back of his head tingling, almost feeling his weapon where it lay strapped to his pack beneath the sloping roof of the shrine. It was barely forty paces away but it seemed like forty miles. He knew he had no chance of getting to the club before Brand struck, and that knowledge was like an iron wall separating him from the shrine.

_It wouldn't work anyway,_ he told himself with a grimace. Though the umbrella would extend the reach of his attacks and allow him to defend Brand's flame-wrapped fists, the weight of the steel-ribbed parasol would slow his body. The delay would only be a fraction of a second, but in this fight that flicker of time was all that stood between survival and the fire.

"Kasen Dan!"

The cry was all the warning Ryoga had. Four arrows of raw flame streaked towards him and their creator charged in their wake, the bright fire wrapped around his arms burning lingering motes in the air.

Sliding to the right, Ryoga pulled himself from the path of the orange bolts and lashing out his leg with a low roundhouse. His kick glanced against his opponent's weakened left leg, faltering the attack and letting him reach for the only weapon he still carried.

A fire-clad fist streaked for Ryoga's face forcing him to block. His forearm caught the attack at the elbow that was fortunately uncovered by the flames, and batted it aside although Ryoga could feel the heat against his shoulder as the blow passed by, making his skin scream. However his other arm had pulled the sash from his waist, a flick of his wrist tightening the hidden links of steel and forging a sword from the once limp fabric.

Twisting his body, Ryoga swung his arm like an uppercut, the cloth blade stabbing upwards through the meagre space between the two fighters, forcing Brand to hop back as the point pierced the silk of his lapel and sheared the material away.

"What the…" the Chinese man began but the words died as he clenched his teeth, pushing backwards to avoid the belt-sword as Ryoga brought it slashing across with a backhanded swing. The weapon emitted a high-pitched hum, the air screaming around the blade as it sliced through.

Brand had lifted his flaming hands defensively as the tip of the sword sang past him, shielding his chest with his forearms from fear of being disembowelled. However as the buzzing fabric cut the air, the fires that wreathed his arms flickered and faltered before vanishing from his hands like snuffed candle wicks.

Brand gawped, staring at his now bare hands and Ryoga felt his own eyes widen. His body was already moving by instinct bred from countless fights, despite the confusion that was beginning to form a haze in his mind his muscles would not let this advantage go to waste. He had swung the mighty hook before he had even thought of it, fist crashing into Brand's cheek and knocking him from his feet.

Brand hit the ground hard but managed to cushion the impact, rolling over his shoulder and to his knees, on hand lifting his upper body whilst the other cradled his face. His blue eyes seemed to blaze through his fingers as he held his struck cheek, spitting a wad of blood-streaked saliva to the floor.

"Bastard," he hissed.

Ryoga barely heard him, his eyes focussed on the stiffened fabric held in his hand, examining the weapon with astounded eyes as he tipped it back and forth in his grip.

"Teishou kineji," he heard his opponent whisper, forcing his attention back to the man as he gathered himself of unsteady legs. "I had thought that technique extinct, where did a wastrel like you learn such a thing?"

"My father taught me," Ryoga growled in response, meeting the man's glare, "and don't even think about insulting my family."

_Teishou kineji, the singing cloth. _It made sense, Ryoga decided, the familiar hum of the blade as it stroked through the air echoing in his mind. His father had never told him the name, and he had never thought of asking. Yujiro had simply called it a 'Hibiki family survival trick,' when he had given the belt to his son three years ago; when two members of the lost clan had, through some miracle, found each other. Generations of experience with wandering unexpectedly through dangerous lands and encountering deadly people had taught the Hibiki's the benefit of having a weapon to hand. Father and son were together long enough for Ryoga to learn the technique; how to bring together the interlocking pieces of steel hidden within the fabric to make the sash stiff enough to swing with such force that the pressure of the displaced air would cut through anything, even, it appeared, fire.

"Cretin," Brand growled. "Why should I show any respect for your family after your lecherous actions towards my sister? You are foolish to think that piece of cloth gives you the right to threaten me."

Ryoga's muscles tensed and he flinched as the man swept his arm upwards, fire seeming to sprout from the very earth like orange vines, with leaves of flame. The grass blackened and twisted as the inferno shot across the ground.

Ryoga leapt high, feeling the blistering heat beneath him as he vaulted over the wall of fire that rolled beneath him, crashing like waves against the rocks and leaving a blistering stain of charred earth where the lost boy had stood. He was running before he landed, charging forwards with a roar as he drew his belt-sword back.

His opponent stood his ground, sinking his weight onto his rear leg as he raised his hands. His palms were held open towards the lunging Japanese fighter; small sparks of scarlet flame danced between his splayed fingers that lit his smirk with flickering red light.

-----------------------

A bitter fluid filled his mouth as he worked his lips. The coppery tang of blood seemed more powerful with his hampered senses; the sour taste mingled with the earthy texture of dirt rang loudly through his mind, almost overwhelming the muted sound of rushing air and the white emptiness that had swallowed the world.

The sensation of grass tickling against his sore, bruised face confirmed he was on the ground. Sliding his arms under his shoulders he pushed himself to his knee, the muscles of his shoulders and sides screaming at him, the throbbing lances of pain making his elbows quivers as he fought to keep himself up. His efforts and the strength of his arms crumbled to dust as he felt a powerful blow swing into his gut.

Ranma spluttered as the air rushed out of him, his face screwing into a grimace as he fell onto his side. Both hands clapped over his belly and he curled up into a foetal ball, bowing his head to his knees as he bent his thighs to his chest. He felt his sides heave as he tried to inhale precious lungfuls of air but his closed posture made the attempt difficult. However he refused to open himself, instead drawing his knees in tighter as some instinct began to ring like a warning gong. His arms flew from his belly and wrapped over his head just in time to take the vicious impact that would have driven his skull into the dirt. His eyes were screwed closed as he covered his head, but still all see saw was the featureless white void.

Another blow rocked him, his head squashed between the muscles of his opposing arms. His lips curled into a snarl as he felt the distinct imprint of a shoe heel pound onto his shoulder. _That bastard, _he seethed silently, _first blinding me now stamping on me when I'm down. Damn him._

Letting his opponent fall into a pattern of raining strikes, Ranma seized upon the gap and hurled himself onto his back, catching the next on crossed wrists and redirecting the attack to his side. Shifting his body by pivoting on the small of his back Ranma tucked the attacking foot beneath his head, chin brushing against his opponent's ankle.

Grasping hold of the shin, he heaved his body up and scissored both legs around Blitz's thigh, crossing his ankles and locking himself in close. He wrenched his body harshly to the side, and pulled the other man down and bending the captured leg by pressing with his own. Everything set up, he felt for the vulnerable tendon at the back of his enemies foot, pushing against it with the blade of his forearm as he cupped the heel with his other hand, preparing to crank the joint against his neck.

The fist came out of nowhere, the pale nothingness that had consumed his sight never receding as he felt the punch slam into his jaw. He senses whirled and the earth seemed to roll and toss beneath him as the impact rocked his brain. Strength left his arms but he was barely aware of the leg slipping away until it smacked onto his sternum. Pain seemed to explode in his chest, making his body fold as he grit his teeth. The world waxed and waned, but Ranma forced his mind to focus, trying to stuff the pain into the back of his mind and force his body to move, rolling over on his side again and again to gain distance.

_Damned moron, _he cursed, driving a fist into the dirt and using it to push himself upwards. _What kind of move was that?_

It had been a foolish manoeuvre, and one that he should have known to avoid, a novice's mistake, that he had thought driven out of him by painful bruises from his father's hands. To use a heel hook from that position could be a brutal surprise allowing the fighter to cripple both the ankle and knee, but the move tied up all limbs in execution, almost offering an invitation to be punched in the wide-open head. Foolish against a skilled opponent, suicidal without the sight to defend against such a counter; it was a testimony to the desperation Ranma could feel clawing away at his insides like a panicked animal.

_How do I fight what I can't see_? he screamed mentally, before he was reminded that he also could not hear; his ears still filled with the sound of a distant ocean.

The tingling in the back of his mind rose to a ringing clamour, and Ranma tensed. Unable to see the attack coming in the white nothing, he could not hope to parry. His face cringing, he ducked his head and shielding his face with his forearms, tightening his abdomen and trying to root his feet into the earth, bracing himself. His stance wavered as something slammed into his arms, but he grit his teeth, his mind lamenting that he had been reducing to such a defence.

He grunted as he felt a blow crash into his stomach, but pushing against the dirt with his legs he thrust his pelvis to soften the blow. Until the strike seemed to erupt against his body, a wave of force tearing him from his feet and launching him backwards like a cannonball.

He crashed into the ground with an impact that made his head swim and caused his body to yell out as every one of the bruises that riddled his beaten form flared with pain. As his consciousness floundered, threatening to drown in the pale emptiness, there was what many call a moment of clarity; a spark of _mushin_, like the eye of a storm, through which a memory flitted through like a stray leave in the breeze

Words echoed in his mind with the muted ring that only came with the sound of your own voice in your ears, a voice that seemed to warble with the blended high and low tones of youth.

_"Come on Pops, how can I fight what I can't see?" Ranma asked, clawing the blind fold from his eyes and squinting as the world seemed to invade his sight all at once. _

_He blinked and shook his head, rubbing at the tender lump that was beginning to grow on the side of his head and scowling at his attacker; a large man who stood across from the young boy besides a babbling stream, adjusting the band of he bandana over a curl of thinning black hair._

_"Stop whining like a girl, Ranma," his father barked gruffly, crossing his arms over his gi as he inhaled deeply and released a long drawn out sigh. "How unfairly cursed I must be to have a son who gives up so easily."_

_Ranma pouted and rose his fist, "I'm not giving up on anything. It's impossible. How do you expect anyone to fight with a blindfold?"_

_"Foolish boy, nothing is impossible to a master of the __Saotome__School__ of Anything-Goes martial arts," Genma spat, thrusting a finger towards his son. "What will happen if someone throws dust or mud in your eyes? Hm? How will you defend yourself?"_

_"What kind of honourless jerk would do something like that?"_

_His answer came swiftly as his father kicked his foot against the ground, hardened toes flicking a wave of soil at him. Ranma yelped as the dirt stung his eyes forcing him to squeeze them shut as he rubbed his face with the sleeve of his white gi. _

_"Damn you, Pops, no fair." He opened his watering eyes just a crack, his vision fluid and watery through his tears but enough for him to find his way to the stream. Sucking in a noisy breath of air he dropped to his knees and plunged his face into the flowing water. Forcing his eyes open his shook his head furiously and blinked rapidly, dipping a hand in to push more water into his face. With a gasp he pulled himself from the icy liquid and rubbing his burning eyes. _

_"That was a cheap trick, Old man," he muttered reaching a hand behind him to grab his now dripping, black ponytail and wring it dry._

_"It's called Anything-Goes for a reason, boy, get used to it" Genma replied walking beneath the boughs of a elm tree, its boughs lush with the green of spring. Reaching up on his tip toes he grabbed the lowest branch, the wood flexing supply as he pulled it down and plucked a single leaf from its twigs. "Come here a moment, Ranma."_

_"What now, Pop?" Ranma sighed, flicking the wet tail of hair back over his shoulder and moving over to where his father stood, leaping back as the man tried to cuff him around the head._

_"Insolent boy," Genma griped with a frown. "I'm trying to teach you something, show some respect. Now tell me boy, which of your senses do you think is the fastest."_

_"Huh?"_

_"Which do you respond to quickest, you idiot."_

_Ranma scowled at his father, folding his arms across his chest. "Well my sight obviously, what kind of dumb question is that."_

_He knew he had made a mistake when a smirk crawled onto the large man's face, emphasised by a bar of sunlight that glared off his glasses, hiding his eyes. _

_"Really," Genma said slowly, drawing the word out slowly. "Well, let's see if you're right, boy. I have a challenge for you, stretch out two fingers." He stepped closer to his son, the two Saotome's now standing toe-to-toe._

_Ranma brows furrowed and his mouth pursed, "Like this?" he asked, lifting his right arm into the small space between his chest and his father's ample belly, his thumb and forefinger extended like a pincers._

_"That's it," Genma said with a nod lifting his own, much larger hand over the child's. The elm leaf was gripped in his thick fingers, fluttering a fists width above Ranma's stubby digits. "Now, boy, try and catch the leaf when I let it go."_

_"Is that all?" Ranma said incredulously._

_"Stop bragging and try it," Genma snapped. "Ready?"_

_Ranma nodded._

_Genma's fingers opened and Ranma's snapped closed, but he was too late and the leaf fell through the air uninhibited, dancing to the ground in lazy spirals. _

_"Again," Ranma cried, snatching up the leaf and handing it back to his father. "It won't work the second time."_

_A crooked smile curved Genma's lips but he indulged the boy, taking the leaf in his fingers and letting it fall. Against the leaf slipped through Ranma's fingers and drifted to the ground._

_"Let's do it again."_

_"I'm not going to lose."_

_"One more time."_

_"Enough, Ranma," Genma shouted, clubbing his son on the forehead with an open palm before the boy could demand another repeat of the exercise that had long since served its purpose. "If you calm down I'll tell you why you can't catch the leaf."_

_"You're cheating, that's why," Ranma snapped earning another rap on the head from his father's knuckles._

_"I said show some respect for your father, ingrate." Genma's frown disappeared as he stood straight, raising himself to his full height as he tugged at the bottom of his gi jacket, pulling out the creases before he tugged his belt tight with a sharp yank on the tassels. Ranma sighed but said nothing, recognising what he had come to know as his father's 'wise sensei' act._

_"The reason you can not catch the leaf, Ranma, is because your brain is too slow." Genma pronounced and lifted up his palm sharply before the words 'who are you calling slow?' could burst from his son's tongue._

_"What I mean is the response takes too much time. First your eyes must see the leaf fall, and then they must send a message to the brain. The brain then has to decide on a response, in this case to make your fingers close, and then it must send the message along the nerves to the muscles in the forearms which clench and make the fingers close. All of that takes time, bare miliseconds, but in a fight that can mean the difference between victory or defeat or even death."_

_Ranma was aware of his jaw hanging open, he felt like he should react, say something, but he had no words. It had never occurred to him how his mind worked when he blocked, how he responded and how long it would take._

_Genma's lips twisted into a half smile, seeing that he had his son's wrapt attention. "Now think about what happens when you touch something hot; your hand retracts instantly., You never think about it, you never consider it, sometimes you are not even aware you're being burned, you just pull away; instantaneous reaction. This shows that it is actually touch, not sight, which is the fastest sense."_

_The larger man grinned and clapped his son on the shoulder, "When your training is complete, Ranma, you will be able to see your opponent's moves and react without thinking. You will also be able to respond so fast you'll be countering before he has even moved. However, your sense of touch will always be faster. The Musabetsu Kakuto Ryu Kage Ken form that I have taught you contains the techniques that will allow you to feel your opponent's movements through contact and counter immediately. However to refine the technique you must practise blindfolded, that way you can not use your vision and must rely on the sensitivity of your touch._

_"Kage Ken?" Ranma asked with a frown._

_"Because you must stick to your opponent like his shadow. This style requires constant contact with your opponent's body; your hands must never be apart from his, that way you can read his attacks from even the smallest tensing of his body. In some styles this is also named the 'sticky hand,'"_

_Ranma stepped back, eyes narrowing before they were hidden behind the strip of dark cloth that he tied over his face._

_"Let's go then, Pops."_

The moment passed like a faded candle, ghosts of memories lingering weakly in Ranma's mind as he pushed himself to his feet. The scent of that distant spring, the cooling water on his face, the rough touch of the blindfold on his face. A world of memories, imprinted on his soul vanished as he returned to the present, the grass beneath him, the protests of his battered body and the pale light that blinded him.

_Once in a while that old man actually makes sense, _he remarked silently, feeling his lips curve, a smirk take its rightful place on his face as he gathered himself to his feet. His muscles pulsed angrily, but he swept the sensations aside, the act coming much easier as he felt a rush begin to swell in his chest, hope flooding his tired limbs with renewed vigour.

The rejuvenation faltered as something slammed into his belly, digging deep under his ribs and forcing him to fold over as his knees buckled. A weak groan guttered from his moan and his throat bunched at his attempt to hold in air. Digging his heels into the dirt, he tried to will the strength to his legs and keep himself upright. Clapping his arms in front of him he grabbed at his attacker, feeling the unmistakable bulge of a bicep and the pointed bone of an elbow beneath thin, soft cloth. He tightened his grip, fingers clawing at the arm.

"Got you," he felt his lips move to form the words as his throat vibrated to produce the sound, but he could not be sure if he had truly spoken.

The world spun as another impact rocked his skull, striking upwards and crashing into his jaw. His brain whirled, his grip weakened and he slumped to his knee as the energy seemed to leak from his legs. Another blow rained from above like a lightning bolt, a hard blow bashing into the muscle of between his shoulder and neck. The nerves screamed and he fell onto his hands, teeth grinding as the pain shot through him.

_Where did that come from? _a voice in his mind shouted, only to be answered by the harsh, driving tone of his father.

_Idiot, you're gripping too tight._

A hand clutched at his shoulder, making his face screw into a tight wince as fingers clamped on to the recently struck flesh... Blitz's arm wrenched him up, lifting his torso upright, dazed head lolling on his shoulders.

Anticipating the face punch that he knew the other man would not be able to resist from this position, Ranma bowed his head and flicked up his hand. The fist met the fleshy pad of his palm with a fiery sting and he grimaced as the back of his hand was driven into his own forehead. However as Blitz withdrew the arm for another blow, Ranma's hand followed it, palm clinging to the other man's knuckles as if glued. At the same time Ranma had placed his other hand lightly over the arm that gripped his shirt, finger tips barely brushing against the surface of the forearm.

The fist under his palm continued to pull back until Ranma was forced to twist forwards to keep the soft contact. At the same time the hand on his shoulder pushed forcefully, trying to drive open the space between them.

_Kick!_

His outstretched arm dropped without thought, plummeting at the elbow until he felt the bone sink deep into soft flesh between hardened thigh muscles, jamming the attempted kick. The tension fled from the gripping arm, the buckling of the limp telling Ranma that his opponent was hurt. That was all the information he needed to straighten his arm out with a fierce thrust, torquing his body behind the blow until his fist shot out like a piston. He felt ribs give beneath his knuckles and sensed his opponent's body writhe.

The hand on his shoulder receded, in the white void the limb seemed to have gain wings and tried to fly away. Ranma stepped forward, first onto one knee, then onto two feet, fingers never leaving the wrist. He felt it twist, growing tight as the hand formed a fist.

_Punch!_

He swept his other arm up, his forearm batting aside Blitz's right fist before his could drive into his face, still clinging to the man's left hand. Twisting his wrist he wrapped the arm in his hand, holding it between his fingers and thumb in with such gentleness his touch was almost ghostly.

Blitz pushed forwards, streaking for Ranma's nose with his left hand, but with his palm stuck to the wrist, the young Saotome found it easy to increase the pressure and push the blow away. He stepped to the side with his back foot and twisted his torso, pulling his head from the fist's path even as he redirected the attack. His body now tightened like a catapult, brimming with stored power, Ranma let himself unfurl like a winding dragon, driving a fist into what he knew to be Blitz's face.

The force of the punch shot the other man backwards, but Ranma refused to let that happen. He lunged forwards, reaching out with both hand to clamp his grip on the Chinese fighter's wrists, the muscles of his shoulders jerking as he halted Blitz's flight suddenly.

"You're not getting away," Ranma hoped he said, and he yanked his foe into himself like a rower's backstroke, lifting a knee into his path and feeling the other man's momentum drive him onto on the hard bone.

"I've got you now, you queer freak," he hissed, hoping the other man could hear him. "Now you're going to pay."

--------------------------

The hum of the cloth-blade rose to a shrill howl as it cut the air, as if the battle between the two warriors had aroused the rage of a banshee. His opponent ducked beneath the wild, backhand slash, as Ryoga followed with another attack, swinging the large fist of his other hand like a club.

Brand stepped into the arc, fielding the blow by sweeping his arm in a tight circle, the fist glancing from his wrist as he thrust his other palm into the lost boy's chest.

Ryoga grimaced as an insubstantial sword seemed to burn into his heart, and he grit his teeth and hissed, tasting blood in his mouth. Twisting away from the strike he brought his sword arm sweeping towards his shoulder and he turned, flicking the blade towards the other fighter's arm.

His opponent slipped away from the attempted slice, circling around to the side with arcing step, forcing Ryoga to shift his body to match, pivoting with a small step back.

A fist shot for his face, fire surging around the knuckles. Ryoga pressed his hand to the flat of his belt, supporting the stiffened fabric and forming a brace that he swept across his body, knocking the fiery attack aside. Pushing forward, he slid slowly and brought the blade to his hip as he jabbed his elbow into his foe's stomach earning a sharp grunt. Unfolding his arm he slashed the belt-sword, the point scoring through blue silk and gold thread as the Chinese man hopped back in a panic.

"Damn you," Brand growled, sweeping his hand up as if casting a stone. "Honou ha."

The earth turned to fire around Ryoga's slippered feet, fingers of flame worming from the blackening grass, rising into waves of orange heat. Tongues of fire licked at his legs as he leapt high, kicking hard from the earth to propel himself out of the inferno. His muscles yelped as he landed, making him stumble, slipping onto his bottom as he leant to beat the flames from his pants.

Though smoke spiralled in the air around the black material, there were no flames, no burns. The only tears and singed holes were those he had already earned from previous encounters with the Chinese master's fire.

_What the hell_? Ryoga's brows furrowed as he frowned at his legs. _That should have grilled me. _His flashed his eyes towards his opponent, tensing to field off any attack.

Brand had not moved. He stood with his lips twisted into a sneer and blue fire still smouldering in his eyes, but Ryoga could see his shoulders heave in a chaotic, irregular rhythm. His face was stained with blood, a thin trickle smeared beneath his nostril and red smudge covering cut over his eyebrow, the swelling forcing his eye half-closed. His body was lop-sided as his left leg bent beneath him, visibly trembling on the verge of collapsing under him. One hand was pressed against his stomach, clamped over the thin laceration where the tip of Ryoga's belt had broken the skin. The other was clenched at his side, but could only form a misshapen half-fist.

_He's weakening, _Ryoga thought, eyes widening with realisation. _He may have Saffron's attacks, but this guy is not made of fire. It must take a hefty amount of ki to make the air ignite, but now he's starting to run out of tinder. That's why he's moved on to burning the grass to attack. I can win this._

That thought galvanised him, and he sniffed at the air, almost smelling his opponent's sweat, his weakness. He bared his fangs and pulled himself to his feet, but the wailing protests of his body reminded him that he was in no better shape than the Chinese warrior.

Every muscle, every joint seemed to raise complaint to his motion, his legs ached and throbbed, and the charred fabric of his trousers clinging to the reddened, scabbed flesh. Heat seemed to boil under his skin as if his body was about to erupt, and he felt sticky as his burns wept beneath his clothes. He was still breathing in regular pants but the action was a pained effort, air seemed to cut into his chest like razor blades, the filling of his lungs blasting him was agony as they expanded against ribs he was sure were broken.

He clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the shocks of pain that ran through the beaten bone, and felt a dull pop letting him know that his mandible had been knocked out of line.

Eyes shooting a fast glance to the fringe of tree that skirted the grassy slope on which he stood, Ryoga saw Ranma match blows with Blitz. The pigtailed-boy clung to the blonde fighter like moss, matching his every step and movement whilst slipping around a storm of blows. Ranma was not even looking at his opponent when he slammed a palm into his chin, taking a hard knee to the ribs in payment. The sight brought a smirk to Ryoga's split lips, and he took slow, but steady step towards his own, red-maned foe.

Ranma was not going to give up.

Brand was not going to give up.

Ryoga refused to give up. If that rat-bastard Ranma Saotome could fight blind, then he could fight with a few burns. If the master of fire refused to concede defeat and apologize for calling him a pervert, then Ryoga would just have to force him.

He stepped forwards, then again.

That is what his life was about in the end. Just one more step forwards, always moving, always walking, always wandering.

Another step, this time faster.

That was the core of martial arts, moving onwards despite the weakness of body and spirit; always training, always learning, always striving to beat that opponent.

Another step, his stride lengthening, his pace growing until he was charging towards the red-haired man and battle cry roaring from his throat, the belt-sword in his hand drew back and then shot forwards in a straight thrust that pierced nothing but air as Brand pivoted aside, twisting himself from the path of the blade.

A large hand clamped onto Ryoga's wrist and pulled, making him stumble to control his momentum. A palm rose up like a gliding bird in an updraft and pressed against his stretched triceps. Pain shot through him like electricity. Ryoga thought he could feel every fibre of the muscle break and snap like torn cloth as a pulse of energy stabbed through his arm. His hand snapped open and his belt tumbled from his hand, falling end over end like a toy dropped by a child.

His arm was released and it dropped to his side as a Brand stomped his heel onto Ryoga's knee. The joint jerked in its setting, and he could feel the ligaments strain as the were bent from an unnatural angle, but they held and he stayed on his

feet, refusing to be knelt.

He saw the fist as a blur on the edges of his vision, barely managing to lift his arm to take the blow before it could slam into his chest. Even so he was sent sliding back, heels scratching furrows dirt and he dug them in deeper. The stalks of grass flew around his feet like sparks around failed car brakes as he slowly came to a stop.

He grimaced with a hiss of pain as he forced his injured arm to move, the muscle spasmed as he slowly lifted the trembling hand in front of him, the other hanging poised by his brow.

Brand shifted his body, shoulders jerking as he moved his left leg back with a pronounced limp and stretched out his right hand. Ryoga could see the man's lips form a smile that did not touch the azure inferno in his eyes from between his finger and thumb, before the air once again began to twist and distort. Motes and rippling haze, like the taint of oil on the clear surface of puddle, formed before him as he poured heat into the air, face tightening with the effort.

_Here it comes; _Ryoga tensed and grit his teeth. _I just hope this works, if I throw them hard enough…_

Streams of fire burst into the air, spiralling around each other into a beam of writhing flame.

Ryoga uncoiled like a whip, hand seized four bandanas and casting them out with a snap. His arm strained against its socket as he flung the strips of fabric with every scrap of force he could summon from his abused body.

The spinning bandanas blurred into humming disks of brown as they met the blast of fire. The flames seemed to part as if cut by the whirring fabric but like a glowing fluid, they rejoined and swallowed the projectiles in their scarlet maw. The wall of fire kept on, and rolled over Ryoga like a tsunami of flame.

He screwed his eyes closed but the light burned through his eyelids filling his vision with red. He could feel the tips of his hair curling and his nostrils filled with the heated scent. Barely managing to cross his arms in front of his face, he felts the heat eat away at him and the fire scour across his skin, nerves seeming to burst in pain beneath the flames. He wanted to howl out but knew that he would just inhale a mouthful of fire, and so braced himself, trusting in his foe's weakness, hoping to whether out the storm.

Milliseconds stretched into years, seconds into centuries.

The conflagration ended. No word or warning, it simply ceased as if turned off by a tap. Body screaming as pain became a vapour that seemed to boil through him and skin peeling from his exposed hands and smoke wafting from his singed clothes, Ryoga heard a cry pierce the air and dared to risk opening his eyes.

Brand's face was contorted into a grimace, teeth grit and one eye barely open. One hand gripped his arm beneath his shoulder, blood smeared across the fingers and welling in the gaps, a red stain spreading across his sleeve. The hand of that same arm was stretched over his body to press at a wound on his opposite thigh. Two bandanas lay limp and twisted behind his feet as two more continued to skim through the air, eventually hitting the earth with a spray of dirt.

_Now you fool,_ Ryoga's mind screamed at him and before he could register the pain that assaulted him, he was already rushing towards the Chinese master as a bull to a red flag.

Brand tensed and released his wounds, a trail of scarlet drops falling in the wake of his fingers as he raised his hands to guard. The blood on his right fist seemed to ignite like pitch to a torch and he launched a burning punch towards Ryoga's face, but the target was no longer there.

Ryoga dropped to his knee, the joint jarred painfully as his patella bounced off of the ground. His gasp his of pain rose in his throat into a growl of effort as he lunged beneath Brand's counter and seized the man's legs, hand clutching like pincers at the back of his knees. Bringing his trailing leg in for leverage, Ryoga barged into his foe's stomach with his shoulder and neck, forcing him to topple back. Then, as Brand began to fall like a cut tree, he wrenched his body back; lifting the other fighter's legs from the floor and sweeping them clear from the ground.

Brand fell and Ryoga sank, driving his torso down and slamming the larger man into the ground, his own weight drilling his shoulders into the gut. He heard the air rush out of Brand with a satisfying whoosh, and Ryoga pushed himself forwards, pinning the red-haired warrior beneath his chest as he lay across his body.

He reached out, hooking the man's nearest arm with in his palm and pulling it under him, squashing it between their bodies and trapping it. Now with both arms free he gripped Brand's other hand pushed it away, holding it straight as flames surged between the fingers and scorched the grass.

"Bastard," Brand roared. "Get the fuck off of me."

"Shut up," Ryoga growled. "I'm taking you down, this time."

It was like trying to hold the oceans still as Brand fought and scrabbled beneath him, rolling and twisting against his weight like the waves. He pulled his left arm back sharply, jabbing an elbow into the man's face, but it was only a glancing blow. Pulling his right leg in to the trapped warrior's hips, he pushed in against the ground lifting his hips and rear leg as he continued to press his chest down. With gravity as his aid he brought his knee raining down into Brand's head, feeling the blows strike the flame-master cleanly on the skull.

Desperate to escape the assault, Brand heaved with all his strength and rolled onto his side; exactly as Ryoga had wanted. Digging the balls of his feet into the ground he pushed himself forwards, pressing his forearm against Brand's shoulder blades and rolling him onto his front, both arms caught beneath his own belly.

Ryoga quickly scooted forwards and swung his leg over his prone foe, mounting the small of his back and sliding his legs in, hooking his feet on the red-haired man's thighs.

Brand jerked his head upwards, slamming the top of his cranium into Ryoga's nose.

Lights flashed like fireworks in his mind as his brain swam, but he shook it off with a grimace. He snorted sharply, splattering a shower of blood from his nostrils against his opponent and he thanked the breaking point once again for saving him from a nasty fracture. His snarl relaxed into a smirk as he saw the silver lining.

Brand's desperate shot had let Ryoga slip his left arm beneath the fire master's chin, and he quickly slid it in deeper lifting it back to take a grip on his own right shoulder. When he pressed his hand onto the back of Brand's skull, fingers clawing at his head like talons, Ryoga knew he had won.

Flexing his muscles with every last ounce of strength in his body, he squeezed his arms together, the bulge of his bicep and the blade of his forearm clamping around Brand's neck like the jaws of a vice, squeezing at the arteries beneath the pale skin.

1…2

Brand twisted and turned, legs kicking at the ground and ki leaking into the air around him, lashing at the air and charring the earth. Ryoga grit his teeth and held on, fangs biting into his own bottom lips as he tried to will more strength into closing his arms, hair whipping around his head as Brand desperately summoned more unfocussed power.

3…4

The struggles ceased, life draining from his pounding legs and bucking hips. The air stilled, not even a gentle breeze hung in the void left by the Bagua master's errant life-force. Smoke spun in thin, lazy spirals as it trailed from the ring of blackened grass that circled them.

5

Ryoga released his grip, sure that the other man's brain had sunk into unconsciousness, and mindful that to hold on for any longer was to risk inflicting irreparable neural damage.

Shoulders heaving as he panted raggedly, he more fell off of his opponent than dismounted, crashing onto his side in the dirt as if his bones had vanished. His muscles no longer ached, his legs no longer strained and the surging heat that raked his skin was gone. He was in no pain, in fact he felt rather good, warm and cosy as if he were a newborn in his mother's arms.

"I won," he said, barely hearing the whisper of his own voice. "Now to help, Ranma."

It was curious that his body seemed to ignore his commands to move, content to just lie there in the warmth. Blackness came and he could not find the strength to fight it as it wrapped him up in its embrace and took everything away.

---------------------------

Piece by piece the world began to take shape. The pristine whiteness of the void began to grow stained, patches of dark and light shifting against the pale background slowly becoming form and shade. Colour began to leak into the world the way a stain darkens into cloth. Blue, green and red, the three primes grew from nothing as if at the moment of creation, mixing into hazy blurs of and watery images.

Ranma head whipped around as a blow crashed into his cheek, his pigtail swinging to bounce of his own face. He staggered backwards, shaking his head to clear the cobwebs that were clinging to his thoughts and squinting at the blotches of blue, black and yellow that he believed was his opponents. The shape twisted and he slipped forwards, bringing his knee from inside to outside in a fast circle and knocking aside a kick with his shin bone.

There was a hollow sound within the rushing of the sea that he guessed was a hiss of pain, his senses still too addled for him to make sense of it.

Ranma threw with a hard punch, aiming for the centre of the blonde blur. A sweep of blue pressed his fist aside, the stinging slap of a palm beating against his wrist. He smiled and he let his arm go limp, pressing forwards with his body as he rolled his elbow over his opponent's block. Arm folded like a crane's wing, he gently guided Blitz's limb across their bodies, feeding it to his rear hand which seized the blonde's wrist and pulled sharply, yanking the man into a fierce knife hand blow which cut into nexus of nerves beneath the jaw.

_Like a shadow,_ his father's voice told him. _Never leave a gap, not one blow but five._

Ranma swapped hands, his lead arm pinning Blitz's arm to his chest, removing any guard as he moved closer, his outer thigh brushing softly against his opponent's inner leg as he twisted his torso and smashed his rear elbow into the Chinese man's nose.

He felt rather than saw his foe tumble backwards, sensing the movement through the touch of his leg on his opponent's. Unfurling his arm, Ranma hooked his fingers into the crook of the blonde's neck and wrenched his head down, grinding the balls of his feet on the dirt and shot his knee upwards.

The attack glanced harmlessly off of what he knew to be Blitz's forearm, and he was barged off balance as the Chinese master rammed his shoulders into Ranma's hips. Two hands gripped his arms, fingers digging into his biceps before pain erupted into him as lightning coursed along his veins.

Energy seemed to pour into him, lancing through his bones, battering against his flesh. His nerves sang and screamed, until his mind seemed to haze and grow cloudy. He was dimly aware of sucking in gulps of air, a crisp, burning scent invading his nostrils and a metallic tang like battery acid filled his mouth. He knew his mouth was open and his throat was tight, but it was only after a spike of pain and a popping sensation that he could hear a voice raised in a scream. His own voice.

He was driven to his knees and something snapped. He had been beaten, blinded and deafened by this man. He had had his manhood and his sexuality mocked. But Ranma Saotome did not lose, and he did not kneel.

With a scream of rage he rose on leg and pressed into against the ground, shoving aside the blistering agony as he heaved himself up and drove the curve of his forehead into his enemy's face. He heard a snap and felt warm blood spray into his face. The pain vanished and the grip on his arm disappeared.

Ranma opened his eyes and squinted as the impact of the world hit him like a fist. The hazy blurs of colour and shade were gone, leaving ghostly phantoms of objects which snapped into perfect clarity. The battlefield around him had form and barrier, distinct shapes and lines that distinguished one body from the next. Everything now had depth in dimension as the last vestiges of the white nothing shattered and crumbled away. He saw his opponent, one eye blackened, yellow hair is disarray with locked crisped and matted to his brow with blood. His head was bowed as he cupped his face in his hands, fingers covering his nose with streams of red leaking between them.

Ranma almost felt guilty that he had dealt such a blow, but pushed it aside ruthlessly as mocking words echoed his mind, amidst the haunting memory of the white nothing and the vile feeling of helpless desperation that had twisted at his guts as he was bombarded by blows.

He had endured, he had refused to yield. That thought brought pride swelling in his breast which he pushed into his abdomen; for with pride came power.

"Time to end this, pretty boy," Ranma growled feeling the restless urging grow and expand in his belly, and he dashed towards his foe. "Mouko takabisha revised."

Strength surging through his body with the silent, sure promise of victory Ranma whipped out his arm with a violent snap, smashing his backfist into Blitz's uncovered temple. As his right arm swung in an arc, body following through the blow, his left came sweeping around in a mighty hook punch to the same spot. The Chinese man reeled, arms falling from his body smeared face allowing Ranma to twist his body into a tight spiral, fist shooting up into the point of Blitz's chin like a rocket. Stepping one leg behind the other, Ranma closed the gap whilst maintaining his spin, back now facing the blonde as he dug the point of his elbow back into his opponents' ribs. Power surged in him, pounding at his stomach in demand to be released. His hands were cupped in front of his hara and his fingers tingled as energy began to crackle in his palms. A mist that seemed to be formed of pure light twisted and swirled into a tiny sphere of plasma. Ranma twisted back towards the other man, thrusting out his hands and setting the seething ki free from his vessel, unloading it into the Thunder master's chest.

"MOUKO RENDAN!"

The small bolt grew into a wall of solid blue light that erupted between his hands and blasted the weakened man away like a paper boat in the path of a tsunami. Ranma was pressed back by the force of his own attack like a recoiling cannon, feet scratching trails in the earth. The air was ripped apart as shockwave carried Blitz across the battlefield, the other man appearing to Ranma as a mottled silhouette in the azure glow.

Finally the lights faded, leaving dancing spots of colours dancing and twirling in Ranma's still sensitive vision. Drained and discharged, he felt hollow, his entire body seeming somehow empty like a river run dry. Panting raggedly, his back hunched until he was supporting his torso with his hands on knees that trembled beneath his palms. He forced his gaze upwards, gazing across the battlefield through thick, black bangs that clung to his face with sweat and blood.

Blitz lay face down in a crater, half of his body buried beneath dirt that seemed to have been crushed into fine powder. Ranma tensed, his body yelping with the effort, but the other man never moved. Time seemed to stretch until Ranma thought he could feel every second slip past, clinging to him before it fell into the abyss that was the past. The master of thunders never stirred.

_Damn right, you bastard! _Ranma wanted to yell, but his voice only made a low croak. His throat pinched at him and his lips felt so dry and cracked he wondered how many centuries it had been since he had tasted water. He could hear a gentle gust of wind whistle through the trees, though it still seemed distant and weak to him as the effects of Blitz's attack lingered. Despite that, it seemed quiet, too quiet.

_Better get out of here. Ryoga!_

His back knotted painfully as he pushed himself back to his full height, struggling against the urge to hunch over, to lie down, and to sleep. He turned his head, neck protesting, and scanned the grassy plain, pockmarked and cratered, torn and charred by colliding powers.

A misshapen lump appeared in a blackened ring of earth, as if a star had fallen to earth, crushing and burning the ground. The lump slowly resolved into two figures, the smaller one, half lying on the other, wearing smouldering yellow clothes and an unmistakable tiger-striped bandana.

Years without season seemed to stretch by as Ranma hobbled over to his rival. His right leg seemed to sink into the floor with every step, knee buckling from his weight The air burned at his lungs as he sucked it in to power each laboured movement. Darkness came and went, all sensation fading in black flashes before returning with an intensity of pain that made him whimper.

The lost boy was a mess, Ranma feeling a slight flicker of satisfaction as he told himself he looked better. Ryoga's clothes were rent in several places, the edges of the holes blackened and frayed, revealing patches of angry and scabrous red skin that were covered in a thin layer of water as the damaged cells wept. His pants were shredded and charred beneath his calves as if he were the victim of a shark attack and the rubber soles of his slippers were deformed and melted. His cheeks were swollen and purple and his lips were split, blood dripping onto his chin, but a soft, almost gentle smile curved his mouth.

"Oi," Ranma said as loud as he could manage a cracked whisper. "Oi, Ryoga get up." he prodded as the other youth's head with the point of his foot.

"Five more minutes, Akane."

Ranma scowled. _What the hell does he think he's dreaming about_, he fumed silently.

"Oi, P-Chan, get up." he growled jabbing a kick into his rival.

Predictably Ryoga surged upwards with a snarl and angry cry, "Ranma, you bastard." He paused, blinked then clutched his skull in his hands. "Ow, my head."

"Know that feeling."

Ryoga opened on eyes and peered upwards, "Ranma? You look like hell."

Ranma snorted, "You're one to talk. I'm still better off than you, pork-butt."

"Ranma!" the boy yelled. He attempted to scrabble up, but slipped and fell onto his backside, rubbing at his temples with finger and thumb. "Remind me to kick your ass when the world stops spinning."

"The world will have ended before that would happen, pal." Ranma cleared his throat and stepped back. "Not to interrupt your nap, but I would suggest we move out before these jerks wake up. Unless you would rather cuddle with your new friend?"

"What new…" he glanced down and noticed the red-haired man laid out cold at his side. With a start he jerked himself to his feet, face then screwing into a wince.

"Typical," Ranma drawled. "Here I am fighting for our lives and you're catching forty winks."

"Shut your face, Ranma." Ryoga snapped back instantly, before his eyes narrowed. "I take it you won."

"You sound as if you doubted me, Ryoga. I'm hurt."

"Well you were taking quite the beating."

"Shut up, pig-boy. My opponent wasn't a push over like yours."

"Push over?" Ryoga snarled. "This guy would have torched you." The lost boy twisted the hand he used to point at the young Saotome to jerk a thumb towards his own chest. "I, however, was too much for him."

Ranma quirked his eyebrow before turning towards Ryoga's felled opponent. Brand lay as if sleeping, a pinkish tinge to the cheeks caught his interest and he quickly checked to confirm whitened fingers.

"Strangle?" he queried, lifting his eyes to see Ryoga's answering nod. "Not bad," he remarked with a tilt of his head, flicking his braid back over his shoulder. The tail of hair seemed unusually limp, as if even his hair was exhausted. "Not really your style though."

Ryoga shrugged, "I picked up a couple of things when I wandered through Brazil a few months back. Besides," he scoffed, "what you don't know about me could fill a library."

"Oh yeah," Ranma said dryly. "You're as deep as the oceans piggy. Now let's get out of here, I'll lead." He turned away, stepping forward slowly, hoping the other boy could not notice his limp or his gritted teeth as he summoned the energy to move despite the darkness that waited on the bounds of his wavering mind.

"Are you sure, Ranma" Ryoga voice followed him. "Is your vision up to it?"

"It's going to have to be," Ranma answered, his foot brushed against the other youth's discarded belt, the weapon lying limp and coiled in the scorched remnants of grass. His spine cracked as he bent to grab the sash, and he barely swallowed his pained grunt. Tossing it to its owner, he watched over his shoulder as it slapped against Ryoga's face before he caught it with a scrabble of arms. "If you lead we'll never find our packs amongst all the arctic snow and massing penguins."

"Aw…shit," the other boy groaned, "the packs."

"What wrong, P-Chan, don't think you can make it?"

"I was just worried about you, Ranma; you do look a little worse for wear. Can't expect a girl to carry a heavy bag when injured can I?"

Ranma scowled at the low shot to his manhood, he had had enough of that from the blonde. "That almost sounds like a challenge, Piggy, let's see how you do."

"You're on, and stop calling me Piggy."

Ranma heard the pace of Ryoga's steps increase and willed his body to move faster; the two teenagers hobbling like old men towards their belongings across a ruined patch of scarred earth beneath a seamless canopy of clouds.

A dog barked into the night, arousing the replies of his brethren until a chorus of canine voices rose amidst the other sounds of the slumbering urban beast that was Tokyo. The sounding of a distant truck horn was sliced by the shrill cry of a car speeding down a highway on the horizon and the shuttling of the train winding along nearby tracks sent vibrations running through the steel roof beneath Konatsu's finely manicured hands.

Clinging to the steel roof of the warehouse, he slid his legs wider apart, skittering across the metal roof on his hands and the balls of his feet like a spider. He took care not to let his long, feminine fingers scratch or rap against the thin, steel surface, determined to move silently without ruining the delicate layer of varnish he had applied to his nails.

_Good girls must be silent and beautiful, _he told himself, peeling his mask away to renew the red, waxy sheen that coated his lips. _Good girls are deadly and sexy and bad girls are punished. I must not fail Miss Ukyo. _He slipped the tube of lipstick back into a slip pouch hidden within the dark, brown fabric of his _shinobi shozoku_, feeling the comforting impression of the steel weaponry hidden within.

It was his skill at concealing weaponry that had brought him to this rooftop, blending into pools of shadow as he waited for his victim. _No…victim is a nasty word, not cute at all. _His mark, he preferred that term, would come before the first rays of sunlight broke over the black band of the horizon.

The man had seemed nice enough, as all the customers of the Ucchan were, returning Konatsu's practised smile as he was led to the counter. He had taken his time over the menu, greeting Miss Ukyo with a kind hello as she welcomed him from behind the grill, and complimenting the waitress's kimono as Konatsu brought him a soda with small steps, each precisely measured for speed without the unseemly appearance of rushing. He seemed to relax after he ordered, complimenting the scents of the chef's succulent foods, as he loosened the knot of his tie beneath his stiff-collared shirt.

It was as the man's hand rose to adjust his spectacles that Konatsu noticed it, a knife slipped away inside the silky lining of his suit jacket. Despite the layers of fabric he could tell that this was no pen knife but a balisong, a deadly length of bladed and possibly serrated steel hidden within metal wings that would fly apart with a flip of the owner's wrist, which was clearly well practised in such a motion. Such a man now sat across a slim grill from his boss, the one ray of light that existed in his bleak, pitiful existence.

Konatsu had felt his eyes narrow, a surge of red haze fading behind into perfect clarity as his thoughts tapered into a blade of cold, steel. He had reached for one of the wooden pins that held his shining waves of back hair in its elegant tail, a pin soaked in his own concocted venom, its tip sharpened to a point that could pierce solids walls like a bullet. A simple snap of his arms, like the release of a coiled spring would have done it, erased the man who dared to bring a weapon into the restaurant of his mistress.

The image of blood splattering across the walls and sizzling on Miss Ukyo's hot griddle stayed his hand. For a bare second he had lost poise and he felt ashamed. _Good girls are discrete and elegant_, a voice admonished him. _Pretty girls can never make a mess. _He had replaced his smile instantly, telling himself that there were too many people near, and knowing that the stranger knew this also brought him comfort and returned his womanly patience.

Instead he had watched and listened, serving customers, cleaning tables but never letting his ears stray from the light conversation the man shared with his mistress, the comments of the other patrons and the sounds of chopsticks on plates becoming a muffled buzz. His eyes tracked every movement of the customer's lips as they spoke without sound, as if muted by some divine button, recording their orders and delivering their food without hearing a single word except from the mysterious man at the counter and Miss Ukyo.

His innocent and beautiful employer was always too trusting, too happy to speak to this stranger as she idly flipped her okonomiyaki, the conversation centring on her favourite subject, other than Mister Ranma; food.

The stranger had kept on smiling as he spun his lies, obviously experienced in the art of deceit. He claimed to have a friend who was also a chef with his own restaurant, conveniently in another ward of Tokyo. He reported that this friend often claimed about having trouble with various suppliers near his restaurant, and after many compliments about the food, probably the only element of truth in his tale, he began inquiring about her suppliers. Miss Ukyo had of course been all too willing to help, displaying both the kind-heartedness and the naivety that had found a place in Konatsu's heart, as well as her brilliant business acumen as she had pointed out the chance of a discount for sending the companies new customers.

The man's smile only grew as he pulled a wire-bound notepad from a jacket pocket and began scribbling as Miss Ukyo listed her suppliers and added a few tips about how to bargain with them, which Konatsu noticed the stranger did not note down. He had also caught how the man's eyes had lingered on one company in particular, the company whose storehouse Konatsu had sought out as soon as he had washed the final dish of the night and his mistress had ascended the stairs to her room, her cheery goodnight ringing in his ears.

The stranger had lingered over his food, though the conversation had faded after he had received the information he had obviously sought, trying not to appear rushed but Konatsu could almost feel the tension in him. When the man removed his wallet to pay he had felt his suspicions rise higher like smog over his heart.

When he was still a child his father had played a game with him, using the _Tenchi ryaku no maki_, the scrolls of heaven and earth that formed the foundation of ninjitsu. He would be shown a small section of the writings; filled with the tiny, precise script of past Jonins and their illustrations of weaponry, taijutsu and tactics, but only for an instant. The challenge was to memorise all he could of the scroll's contents in the heartbeat that it was revealed. A pang struck his chest as he remembered the proud smile of his father when he performed well, accompanied by a reward of a sweet cake or pretty new hair ribbon. However, the feeling turned into a bitter weight inside him as he recalled practising with her step-sisters, the rewards gone with new, often severe, punishment for failure; the exercise no longer a game but a cruel trick.

A man's wallet speaks silently, telling tales of its owner's life and his habits. When the man had opened his, Konatsu had learnt all he needed to know and had pouted to cover an instinctive and improper grimace.

The man had carried no form of identification, not even a driver's license. No bank cards despite their essential role in modern life, at least a legal modern life, the only a single tatty membership card for a club named 'Exxxotic,' which Konatsu guessed was the type of establishment no respectable person, such as the man appeared to be, would visit publicly. However, beneath the ringed imprint and distinct foil wrapping of a condom packet, the wallet was fat with bills of high denomination. This was added together in Konatsu's mind as if the stranger was an equation with a prominent unknown that required calculating. The answer was that the man had no bank account and was used to being paid in large wads of cash for various, and doubtfully ethical, services by people who had the money and lack of scruples to hire him.

People such as Kodachi Kuno.

The sound of a car pulling to a stop, gravel grinding beneath its tires, was accompanied by a harsh glare that lit along the edges of the roof, and forcing Konatsu to slink backward and press himself flat against the metal surface, shying his eyes from the brightness lest his night vision vanish. The light vanished and he crawled back to the lip of the rooftop, eyes narrowing over his mask as he watched his mark step from his small Toyota Landcruiser, the green paint appearing black in the gloom.

The man shut the door behind him with a flip of his hand, grinding out the light of his cigarette on a coin before carefully pocketing the stub, blowing a thick stream of smoke from his nostrils. He was dressed differently; the sharp blue suit, shining, leather shoes and loose tie now gone. Instead he wore tight black jeans over laced army boots, combined with a short, dark coat, leather gloves and a black woollen hat covering his brown hair. Konatsu assumed the jet-coloured garments had been chosen on the assumption that it would help him blend into the night, and almost snickered at the thought when weighed against the expert knowledge that black created a hard shadow against the softer darkness of twilight.

The man slipped over to the warehouse with light, tip-toed steps that Konatsu would have found comedic if not for the threat to his mistress. Instead, he moved stealthily across the roof poising himself over the figure's head. He watched curiously as the man crouched, seeing a glint of steel before he heard a faint but definite _snip_.

_He's cut the alarm system on the door, _Konatsu guessed, almost admiring the skill and planning taken before he realised that this was his chance.

Bracing his hands on the edge of the rood and gripping the overhand, he pushed with the balls of his feet, lifting his body into a handstand before flipping feet first towards the ground, pirouetting in mid-air to land facing the hireling's back.

"Excuse me, sir?" he said, reminding himself to be polite.

The man started with a gasp and spun quickly. The balisong came out in a flash of metal, wings spreading with a twist of his hand to revealing four inches of razor-edged steel. He pivoted and thrust in a flurry of practised motion, stabbing for Konatsu's heart in the time it took for the vital organ to beat.

To Konatsu it was like slow-motion.

He stepped to the side and twisted his torso from the path of the blade the way water parts around a rock, and seized the wrist in a lazy but secure grip. He pinched the man's arm with his other hand, fingers pressing into the uncovered nerves besides the bicep and making the limb buckle and turn limp as the man grimaced. With no strength in the arm to resist him, it was a simple matter for Konatsu to twist the knife-bearing hand back towards its owner and guide the blade gently into his thigh.

As the man cried out Konatsu moved swiftly, one hand clamping over the crook's mouth to stifle his yell as the other seized his shoulder and spun him around so that the blood that spurted from the wound as the knife slid deep did not splatter over Konatsu's clothes. After all blood was nearly impossible to get out of this type of wool.

The man's muffled shout died and Konatsu removed his hand, watching as his mark stared with wide-eyed fascination at his own weapon protruding from the flesh of his leg.

"I am ever so sorry about that, sir." Konatsu said softly, meaning every word despite that cold feeling within that tried to slip a dry note into the words. "I'm just afraid that I cannot let you or Miss Kuno damage Miss Ukyo's business. Please accept my apologies."

His hand shot out in a blur, almost lost in the dark night, and he struck two knuckles into the base of the man's skull watching him crumble like a castle of dry sand. He then lowered himself onto his haunches to pat his hands across the criminal's unconscious form, taking care to avoid the wound and the creeping puddle of blood.

His touch bumped against something solid and cylindrical over the man's chest and he reached within the dark jacket to extract the item. Konatsu held it up to the faint orange light that came from a distant streetlight long enough to confirm that it was a clear, plastic vial filled with a transparent, purplish liquid. Unscrewing the lid he wafted the tube beneath his nose, filling his nostrils with a faint, bitter scent. A moment later he felt bile rise to his throat, which he swallowed with a burning sensation and a silent admonishment that it was not ladylike to retch.

Quickly replacing the vial's lid he sprung back to the rooftop and from there to another, Konatsu slipped the tube into the folds of his dark gi and looked down at the prone man sprawled across the ground. The knife still jutted from the flesh of his thigh and in the darkness the spreading blood looked like tar. Konatsu frowned before changing the expression to a pout, pursing his reddened lips as he regarded the curve of the man's neck and the bulge of his trachea. His thumb found the ring of his kunai; one moment, draw and slash in a single movement and the saboteur would be dead and his mistress safe.

_Miss Ukyo must be protected, _a strangely deep voice growled from inside him, and he began to slide the blade free.

He stopped himself and pushed the kunai back into its hidden sheath, and counted to himself in French, such a pretty language, and forced his mind to thoughts of flower arrangements and cross-stitch patterns. An extra leaf or an unnecessary stitch could ruin the beauty of the whole work. Taking this man's life, no matter how much he deserved it, was just making a bigger mess, it left too many questions and could bring trouble to Miss Ukyo's door.

Better to call the police, he decided leaping to the rooftop once again and bounding in search of a telephone box. The nice people at the police would be sure to lock up the man and that would keep Miss Ukyo safe, after all he was trespassing, left plenty of evidence of tampering with the warehouse security system, and the only fingerprints Konatsu had left upon the balisong were the crook's own. Everything would be neatly wrapped up like a pretty bow on a cute present. There was only one loose end: Kodachi.

Konatsu landed hard on another roof, the tiles cracking beneath his feet. He barely noticed; his mind focussed on the evil gymnast, the woman who dared to threaten what was his. He calmed himself again but the fury receded sullenly like a child sent to her room. Kodachi would get what was coming to her, just like any loose end would be cut from the lovely bow.

_After all, good girls take care of any messes._

The chill air of the morning cut through Shigurei's coat as he stepped from Mizuki's car. Closing the door behind him and shivering, he put his case on the floor and yanked his collar upuntil it scratched against his jaw, then tugged at the fabric, struggling to cover a fingers breadth more of his body. He smoothed out the ripple that had curved through the thick, white paint that spelt his name in block kanji upon his breastdirectly beneath the larger print of the English word: FORENSICS.

He grimaced as he eased his hands into a fresh pair of gloves, the white latex like ice on his skin in the cold, and glanced around; making a first scan of his latest mystery and watching for those tiny, insignificant details that often seemed to scream at him, as if trying to convince him of their own importance.

It was a faceless warehouse, small and short, nestled amongst nondescript buildings, a scene with a thousand twins scattered all over Tokyo; a hybrid runt of red brick and brown steel panels, the front wall cut by a large cargo door, dented and scratched by the years. Shigurei tilted his head back as he sniffed the air, nostrils clogging with the pungent scent of fish from the many fish mongers crowding the nearby docks. He snorted and his eyes came to rest on a sign, the white plastic streaked with dark grime but still easily readable.

HIRAKAWA MEAT SUPPLIES.

"A slaughter at the slaughter house," a gruff voice said on an escaping coil of cigarette smoke. "Someone has a sense of humour."

"I'm not laughing," Shigurei muttered as he watched Detective Izumi stroll from a milling group of uniformed officers and gawping bystanders.

"You never laugh, Shigurei," Mizuki said with a red lipped smirk, her chin propped in her hands, elbows resting on the metallic blue roof of her sedan.

"Good morning, Doctor Egawa," Izumi said, greeting her with a small nod, before he turned back to Shigurei

"The two of you got here fast," the cop remarked.

Shigurei scowled. "That's because the good doctor here," he indicated Mizuki with a jerk of his head, "seems to think that speed limits are something that only happens to other people."

"You sound like an old man, Shigurei," Mizuki huffed. "It was an emergency."

"The man's dead, Mizuki; he's quite stable."

The coroner poked out her pink tongue at him before tucking a twist of blonde hair over her ear and marching over to where two paramedics stood, their bright green overalls clearly visible against the drab surroundings.

Shigurei felt his mouth tighten at the small smile that had appeared amidst Izumi's dark and wiry stubble. He resisted the urge to lift his gloved fist to his lips as he cleared his throat loudly.

Izumi's smirk fell away. "Latest victim is Touji Sawada, night guard. The owner identified the body," Izumi flicked his thumb toward the ambulance where a plump man with small glasses and frizzy, thinning hair, sat on the lip of the van beneath a thick, yellow blanket. He clutched a crumbled paper bag in one hand, the skin crusted with a yellow-brown smudge that Shigurei instantly recognised as vomit.

"That bad?"

Izumi blinked, "The body?" The policeman's eyes followed Shigurei's to the fat man who was sweating despite the air's cold bite. "No, this one got off easy compared to the last two. A lot of blood though, the owner just blacked out when he took a look. Some people are just like that."

Shigurei latched on to one of Izumi's words. "Easy?" he murmured, brows furrowing.

Izumi, hand stuffed in his pockets, gave a shrug of his shoulders, "Looks like it. But it's not my place to say," he said, stepping around Shigurei and taking a leisurely step towards the warehouse.

"Cigarette," Shigurei said firmly.

The cop's shoulders slumped as he sighed, twin streams of pale smoke flowing from his nostrils and wafting away into the salty air. "You're worse than my wife," he griped but dutifully extinguished the red glow and, once sure the flame had died, he dropped the chewed butt into one of the large pockets of his overcoat.

Shigurei followed behind the other man, making his way up the slight incline to the scene, early morning frost crunching beneath his shoes. He frowned as he glared at the ground, the rough pavement and the ice would have sealed away any marks the killer had made. No hair, no fabric, no luck. He sighed; the interesting ones never were easy.

Two uniformed cops shuffled and fidgeted, sickly twists to their lips as they watched Mizuki squatting on her haunches at the side of the corpse. As Shigurei approached, he stepped around Izumi to get a clear view. Blood soaked the ground, spreading in a pool of dark crimson around the dead man. Fragments of ice had crusted at the puddle's rim; looking like ruby shards. The young coroner shifted back, pulling a thin, metal spike out of the body's pallid abdomen. One of the officers made a small choking sound, and he heard Izumi's snort of laughter as he lowered himself next to the blonde woman.

"Ninety-one point two degrees," she declared, reading from a digital display at the probe's pommel.

"That would usually mean he's been dead for about six hours," Shigurei muttered as he pressed a gloved finger into the layer of blood and felt the cold sting of the pavement through the latex. "However, with the low temperature, I would put it closer to four."

He barely noticed Mizuki's concurring nod as he turned back to the corpse. Touji Sawada had been a slender man; the dark shirt and creased trousers of his uniform hung about his lifeless limbs except where his blood had plastered the fabric to his body. His short black hair was woven with streaks of grey, tufts bristling erratically from his head where blood and water had frozen around the strands. His jaw hung open revealing the jagged yellow teeth and his brown eyes gazed through the glassy film of death at the looming cops. The only visible wound was a wide, circular hole in his neck that had pierced the flesh besides the bulge of the man's larynx.

"It probably took him forty five minutes to an hour to bleed out, so my guess is that our killer was here around three am."

"Nope," Mizuki said, shaking her head. "Not this time, Shigurei, I'm afraid that Mr Sawada did not bleed to death."

Shigurei blinked, "He's got a large hole in his carotid artery, and look at all this blood."

"Don't miss anything do you, Shigurei," she replied dryly. "Try again."

"Suffocation?" Izumi guess gruffly as he leant forward to glance at the corpse.

Mizuki shook her head, "Nope, it is actually possible to breath with a hole in your trachea. Emergency medical staffs use it when the airway is blocked." She ran a finger along the circumference of the wounds, the torn skin curved outward as if pulled

"Like you said, the killer stabbed through the carotid artery, the main supply of blood to the brain. If he had not already died instantly, he would have bled to death."

"Instantly?" Izumi muttered.

Mizuki tapped the blood-smeared hole and trailed her finger up the path of the blood vessel. "Like I said, the carotid supplies the brain with blood. Such a vital supply must be kept regulated, and the pressure kept within the optimal limits. This spot, the carotid sinus, contains nodes that act like internal barometers to keep the blood pressure at the right level by sending signals to the brain, which then responds by altering the pressure. If one of the nodes receives a violent shock, such as a hard blow, the signals is misinterpreted producing a violent reflex, which caused blood pressure to drop. The heart goes into cardiac arrest and the brain shuts down."

"And if it is stuck with enough force to puncture the tissue?" Shigurei could guess the answer, but let the question hang in the cold air.

Mizuki nodded with a tight frown, "Brain haemorrhaging leading to severe neural shock. This guy was dead before he hit the floor."

Izumi made a rough noise in his throat and rubbed a hand across his stubbled face. "So our killer managed to hit this node that hard?"

"More than managed," Mizuki growled, jaw tightening into a scowl. "The wound marks the carotid sinus within a couple of millimetres. Whoever did this has some knowledge of anatomy."

"Or some severe training," Shigurei surmised as he pushed himself to his feet, never taking his eyes from the empty. "Something's wrong," he whispered to himself, though his words drew the attention of the others.

"The other victims were badly beaten, with broken bones and misplaced joints and contusions. This guy seems to have no other wounds-" he paused, waiting for Mizuki's nod of confirmation before continuing "- and seems to have enjoyed a relatively instant and pain free death."

"Tell that to him," Izumi grunted forcefully. Shigurei blinked at the snappish reaction.

"The point is, why this guy got so lucky," he rubbed at his chin as he frowned at his surroundings. He could almost feel the gears turn in his mind, working smoothly like an oiled, efficient machine. It was an addictive sensation.

"There is no sign of a struggle, no other body, and the body was found by accident rather than from a phone call, all of which are signs of the killer being interrupted. However, judging by the time and the scene, I would say that was unlikely."

"I doubt our guy came all this way to just kill someone," Izumi said, jerking at thumb towards the warehouse. "Take a look inside."

Shigurei nodded and made his way beyond the corpse. He stepped to the side as the building's walls blocked his view where they met at a sharp corner. The drain pipe spluttered as he passed; sounding like a harsh death cough as a small spat of water dribbled into the gutter, gaining a twist of pink as it slid through a sticky splash of blood.

His hand loosened when he came to the door, and he tensed it back into a fist with a yank as he felt the handle of his case slide down his fingers. The contents shook as they came to a sudden halt.

"That's quite something isn't it?" Izumi's gruff voice came from behind him.

"Indeed."

The door was made of thick steel covered in a hasty coating of white paint that was cracked and flaking about the shallow dent in its centre. The deformed surface was embossed with a red mark, printed in a thick fluid at the origin of a powerful smash. The door gave a muted, metallic creak as it shuddered; its weight settling precariously on the single hinge that kept it bolted to the frame. The other two joints were twisted and curled into the doorway as if frail and frightened. The brickwork on the opposite edge bore a bite mark, fragments of brick clinging to the ruined half of the metal bolt that had once held this portal locked.

"What do you make of that red mark," Izumi asked. "It looks like a footprint."

"It is a footprint, and made in blood, probably our victim's."

Shigurei squatted and flipped open the latch on his kit box, spreading open the compartments with their neatly wrapped bottles and cotton swabs.

"That means our killer came here after he killed Mister Sawada. Though he was kind enough to give us his shoe size," he said, smoothing a sheet of paper over the mark, he pulled off the print.

"A size eight to be exact," he remarked as he held a set square to his blood rendered copy and frowned. "There is no defined pattern to the mark so I would guess he was wearing something without treads, like slippers of some sort."

"Shigurei, have you been sniffing those chemicals of yours?" the cop asked slowly as he stared down at the investigator with hooded eyes. "It almost sounds like you are suggesting that someone kicked open a solid steel door."

"That's what the evidence tells me," Shigurei shrugged.

"Okay, I'm no scientist," Izumi said, folding his arms across his chest as rolled his eyes in a slow circle. "However, I am sure that no one can kick open a door that big without being an anime character. Also that footprint," scepticism larded the word, "is horizontal. He would have had to have kicked the door sideways, which no normal person does."

"I agree," Shigurei said absently, tucking his print into an envelope and retrieving a vial of fine black powder and a small brush, capped with soft shaggy bristles that hung erratically from its end. "An ordinary person would not do that, but a martial artist…" he let the statement hang as he stepped through the wrecked doorway.

The interior of the warehouse had been the stage of some catastrophe, as if a typhoon had ripped through the abattoir, its fury bound and contained by the thin steel walls, which bore creases and dents from the numerous impacts of fleshy chunks of pig meat.

Ignoring Izumi's shrill, drawn out whistle as the cop ran his eyes over the scene; Shigurei crouched and flipped the latches of his case, the sound echoing flatly in the cold room. Unfolding the black, wire-mounted shelves that held neatly packed swabs and bottles he pulled his camera from where it lay nestled at bottom of the metal box. The bulky, black cylinder of the lens was next, clicking into its mounting snugly before he clipped on the lamp, and the machine came to life with a shrill whine.

The flash glinted of the rows of meat hooks that hung from the high ceiling. Only three carcasses still swayed from them, others seeming to have been flung across the abattoir, obviously torn forcefully from the hooks leaving only ribbons of tangled flesh on the steel curves. The remains that lay strewn across the floor were mangled and broken as if set upon by a pack of wild dogs, the ribs cracked and snapped through pallid skin above gory rends where the fattened meat had been torn from the pigs.

The shutter clacked and whirred as Shigurei captured the image of a stack of crates where a butchered remnant of a large steer seemed to have been driven through the wooden boxes, leaving fragments of splintered kindling smeared with brown juices.

The wheel on the lens clicked as he adjusted the focus, zooming close to where one of the pigs was still suspended from the sharp spike of metal. Its flank had been pierced multiple times, rows of four circular wounds puncturing the flesh. Their suspect's signature.

"Circular wound impressions," Shigurei called to the detective, nodding his head towards the mangled mound of meat. "Definitely the same guy and his strange weapon." He walked around the suspended pig, snapping two more photographs of the sight that was making his brain tingle. Brows knit; he let the camera sway upon the strap he had wound across the back of his neck, narrowing his eyes at the confounding stab marks. "Though why would any body want to mangle a load of pork dinners?"

"Perhaps he's one of the extreme, vegetarian nuts," Izumi ventured with a shrug that set the tails of his long coat rippling about his calves.

"Is that your subtle way of saying animal-rights activists, Detective?" Shigurei tossed back dryly, quirking one eyebrow towards the cop.

Izumi shrugged again," It's as good a guess as any. Nothing in this case makes sense so far." He shot Shigurei a wry look from the corner of his eye, "But you like it that way, don't you, Toshiyama?"

Shigurei did not reply but allowed himself a small smile as he walked over to the large steel entrance to the freezer, the loud droning of the cooling coils deafening in the silent, flesh-covered room.

The door had been wrenched open, with four dark holes and one twisted screw to attest to where the lock had been fixed to the walls. The cold metal bit into his hands through the thin latex barrier as he leant closer. On the curved handle were three smudges imprinted in burgundy-brown grease, the chilled surface perfectly capturing the pattern of loops and arcs of their killer's fingers.

"Are you going to frown at that door all morning, Shigurei, or should we take a look inside."

Shigurei felt his lips purse, and made them relax with a sigh. Izumi was right, he could pick apart the details later, and he needed a broader picture. It was like those jig-saw puzzles that he had had pored over as a child, so much easier to solve when you had seen the picture on the box.

Hooking his fingers over the rubber-sealed lips of the door he pulled it towards him, widening the gap as the hinges creaked; the sound running through the metal until it rang like a metallic death cry.

Stepping over the door frame Shigurei entered the freezer, the cold clawing at him through his coat. His footsteps rang against the walls, coated with a shine of frosted mist and his breath became a thin vapour that wafted across his face with every exhalation. The cold chamber seemed to have been untouched despite the obvious signs of forced entry. Three rows of beaten metal racks of wooden shelving stretched ten paces to the far wall, loaded with hardened carcasses that were tightly wrapped in a frosted layer of white plastic sheet, all still neatly packed, sealed and undisturbed.

However, Shigurei had built his life from finding the glitch in order, for finding the one element that should not be there. This time it was the pattern in the frost that covered two hanging sides of frozen beef. Deep misshapen notches and dents had been pounded into red meat that was hard like marble in the icy room.

Shigurei snapped open the locks on his case, the sound bouncing harshly of the walls of the small room. He withdrew a black cylinder, shaped like a pen but two fingers wide; it tapered towards the rounded butt where a thick length of insulated wire ran to a dark box adorned with buttons and dials. Clipping the pack to his belt, he ground his thumb over a toothed wheel labelled frequency, before he clamped a thin disc of plastic, the colour of aged amber at the tip.

With the push of a button violet light spouted from the torch's end, landing in a distorted ellipse of brightness that Shigurei slid across the tiles of metal grilling that lined the floor. Slowly he angled the light upward, illuminating the frozen slab of beef.

"What the hell is that?" Izumi said with a grimace.

"Post-mortem bruising," Shigurei replied absently, scowling at the familiar pattern of dark, purple ripples and splotches that appeared beneath the touch of the violet light. "Someone beat this beef with their bare hands," he pronounced, reading the markings. Images of morbid files and autopsy photographs flickered in his mind, burned into his conscience from the years of dealing with domestic abuse and the darker sides of society.

"Why the hell would someone do that," he heard the policeman ask, but he was already in motion, dropping to one knee before his case. Seizing a handful of pink rods and a ruler, he dived back into the warehouse. Stepping up to one of the hanging carcasses, the cold flesh firm beneath his latex-covered palm as he lay his hand on its flank, holding it still as he slid a pink rod into a curve of four wounds, the plastic penetrating deep into the flesh.

"Shigurei, there were no guns in any of the killings? Why are you testing for trajectory?"

"Call it a hunch," Shigurei replied moving closer to the swaying slab of pork, tilting his head, almost pressing his cheek against the chilled meat as he gauged the angles of the wound paths; a shiver running down his spine that had nothing to do with the cold warehouse.

"Tell me, Izumi, you look like an action fan, have you ever seen the Rocky films?"

From the corner of his eye, Shigurei saw the cop start, probably alarmed by the seemingly irrelevant question.

"Rocky?" the older man spluttered before he frowned, brows drawn together. "Is that the one about the American boxer? I've seen a couple but I wasn't a fan, too much American flag waving for me."

Shigurei nodded absently, laying his steel ruler against the carcass as he measured the wound trails. "I thought the same, but a friend from my dorm at University was a fan and we went to see the fourth film when it was released."

"The one with the Russian?"

"So you are familiar with the films, good. Do you remember how Mr Rocky trained for the bout with the big Russian?"

Izumi's face screwed in though, his eyes drifting upwards as he thought. "Well he ran in the snow whilst they played some cheesy rock song and he punched a…" the words faded as the detectives jaw dropped, his eyes widening.

"He punched a slab of beef is what I think you were going to say."

"Wait a minute, Toshiyama; you said something earlier about a martial artist. You think this is some sort of strange training regime?"

"Wounds from the previous victims were similar to injuries inflicted in various joint locking techniques documented as part of many martial arts. Both victims were known to be martial artists of some repute, one a former pancrase champion and bouncer, the other I found out held a high ranking belt in Kyokushinkai karate and was part of a yakuza family. All signs indicate that our killer is a martial artist of some ability and very powerful."

"This guy takes his training seriously, after all, what better place to practise tearing up flesh than at a meat supplier," he nodded towards the mutilated pig meat. "Angle of the wounds, their depth and distance apart is consistent with the hand and finger span of an average adult male. Seems like we don't have a murder weapon to find after all."

"You're saying this guy can stab people with just his fingers."

"To put it bluntly."

Izumi took a long breath, inhaling air in a loud but slow rush. The cop held it in, his lips narrowing to a twisted, narrow line as his hand wandered over his body, patting and squeezing at the fabric of his long coat. After a moment he sighed, the emptying his lungs through his nostrils with a rush.

"Screw it, I've got to have smoke," he muttered, pulling a small red and white box from his pocket, fingers already toying with the flap. "I'll leave you to it, Shigurei, but make it quick if you can, we have somewhere to go.

"Oh," Shigurei said, lowering the camera from his face, pausing in the act of capturing the image of the wounds and their pink indicators. "Where's that?"

"The best place in Tokyo for crazy martial arts: Nerima."

Steam sputtered in faint wisps that trailed behind the spinning bowl like the pulsing tail of vapour streaming behind an old locomotive. The floral pattern that ran around the bowl's rim was blurred to a wavering line as it rotated with a hissing sound, bobbing and swaying as it rode the air currents of the small restaurant like a swallow. It swooped gently into Shampoo's outstretched hand as if beckoned and she pushed herself into a graceful spin, pirouetting like a dancer as she arrested the momentum of the dish's flight until it came to a halt in her palm. She fought to keep her cheerful smile on her lips as a dribble of scalding ramen broth sloshed over the side and onto her bare fingers, and she quickly deposited the bowl onto the table before the young customer who gawped at the noodles with his jaw hanging open.

"You enjoy meal, yes," she said in the bright voice that she had used more and more since meeting her husband. The boy nodded slowly, swallowing hard.

She walked from the table swiftly but without rushing, adding a practised sway of her hips to her graceful gait for the benefit of the predominantly male customers and her tips jar. Sliding her fingers along the edge of the cloth she kept tucked into the laced strap of her apron, she wiped away the traces of spilt broth, despite the protest of her reddened finger tips as well as the other patches of raw skin on her hands.

When her Great-Grandmother had agreed to her request to train her Shampoo had expected be working in the restaurant less. Being a small café, the Nekohanten was a casual place; most of custom came from the lunching business men through the week and the relaxing teenagers at the weekend. They took no bookings; their evenings were filled by the demands of their healthy delivery business. The afternoons were all but silent, the doors open to the few groups of walk-ins, students with the munchies, school kids returning from afternoon clubs, single men who were comforted by being served by a beautiful foreign waitress, curves accentuated by form-fitting silk, before returning to their lonely apartments.

They were the customers Shampoo would be happy to lose. It had always seemed such a waste, to be trapped within these walls, amid the booths and tables, serving a handful of people who ate very little, tip badly and told their orders to her breasts rather than her face. She should have been spending those precious hours training or learning, living the life of an Amazon warrior, constantly striving for strength and knowledge. She should be practising her forms and honing the skills that she could feel slipping away with every platter of wontons that she served these coddled outsiders. She could work on her Japanese ridding herself of the sniggers she saw people try to hide behind their hands when she missed a pronoun or mangled verb tenses, not that she was actually concerned about those opinions. Only her Airen's mattered.

However when she suggested that to her Great-Grandmother, the old woman cackled at her, the same dry laugh that she knew made her beloved wince at the promise of mischief it held.

"Why would we want to stop serving the customers when son-in-law proved it such an effective training method?"

So here she was in the middle of a winter's afternoon, catching flying bowls of steaming noodle soup as the old matriarch launched them across the restaurant with a precise flick of her cane. With only eight customers the game was intensified as Cologne flung the ramen in swooping paths, the bowls' spin curling the dish away from Shampoo forcing her to spring off of vacant chairs and flip over empty tables. The scalding broth was a powerful deterrent to sloppy form, forcing her to try and perform with perfect co-ordination of vision and movement. The scattered applause and generous tips from the clientele watching the floorshow was also another unforeseen, and appreciated, spur to pushing herself to improve: though she had quickly learned to wear her silken trousers rather than short skirt whilst performing such acrobatics. Wiping the puddles of blood from perverted noses was not the work of an Amazon.

However, her heart stung with memories of how her husband had done so much better, collecting steaming food whilst exchanging blurred fists with her Great-grandmother; of how fast he progressed from carry five bowls with his body to twirling twelve on long shoots of bamboo, even though the tiniest splash of the scalding soup had been as molten lava to him.

The boy and even his female guise, seemed to Shampoo to be hidden at the end of the rainbow and no matter how many mountains she struggled to climb, he was always over the next hill.

_And not just in martial arts_, she thought with a restrained sigh.

"Excuse me, Miss?"

Shampoo turned towards the voice, her frown at the interruption to her musings and at the wavering tone of the speaker was quickly replaced by the practised smile.

"How Shampoo help?" she said before she pouted, brows lowering as she looked at the customer.

The teenager's skin had grown pale and pallid, a greenish tinge colouring the corners of his lips. A greasy coat of sweat covered his brow, the thick beads clinging to his forehead like dew. His breath sawed in and out of his body, wheezing as he inhaled in irregular pants amongst low croaks. Eyes that a few minutes earlier had possessed a starry glint as they traced the swell of her breasts were now glazed and erratic, their lids widening and squinting as he struggled to focus on her.

"You no look, good," Shampoo said, tilting her head to appraise the boy's health. "Shampoo call ambulance, okay?"

The boy nodded weakly. "Thank you. May I have some...?" He words faltered as he emitted a wet belch. "Some wat…" His eyes crossed and his body convulsed as if a ripple surged from his feet to his head before his mouth burst open to release a stream of green-brown liquid onto the table, sloshing into the remains of his ramen and clouding the soup.

A woman in the restaurant screamed and Shampoo stepped back as the spreading vomit began to drip over the edge of the table, barely shifting her rose-coloured slippers before the were stained. She clamped a hand over her mouth, holding her cloth over her nostrils as the foul, acidic stink clogged her nostrils making her own stomach jerk and hot bile rise in her throat.

_Steel yourself, girl _she snapped at herself. _Are you an Amazon or a weak-willed outsider? _

"Great-grandmother, call ambulance," she yelled towards the counter that led to the kitchen. She flicked another quick glance at the boy, who was attempting to wipe a dribble of vomit from his lips before a twitch sent another deluge of rank liquid flowing from his mouth. Her lips twisted as she watched a growing stain spread on the tiled floor.

"Mousse, get mop, we need clean up."

The woman screamed again, her voice leaping an octave and ringing hard against the walls of the small room. Shampoo winced and turned towards the sound, seeing the small woman bolt from her chair, knocking it to the floor with a clatter. One hand was pressed to her cheek and the other to her stomach as her wail ended with a sour twist of her lips, her eyes wide behind large spectacles that had slid down the hooked bridge of her nose.

The large man she had been dining with was hunched over their table, back and shoulders heaving as a wet gurgle sent the contents of his belly splashing onto the wooden surface. His podgy face was red and sweaty from the force of his convulsions and his own glasses fell from his right ear to lie unheeded besides stomach fluids and half-chewed noodles.

The other five customers fled the building, chairs and tables scraping loudly against the tiles as they rushed to the door. Their faces were all pale, hands clamped over their lips or pressed to their belly as they rushed. One man had just made it to the doorway before he too fell to his knee and released a wave of vomit onto the street outside bringing a loud groan of disgust from several passers-by.

The other four did not get much further.

"Dear ancestors," Mousse muttered in Mandarin, voice muffled behind the sleeve he held to his face. A large steel bucket hung from a thin wire handle in his fist, the wooden shaft of a mop in his other hand.

"Suck up, stupid Mousse," Shampoo snapped. "No time for weak male constit…maleness."

With his robe over his lower face and his eyes obscured by the thick lenses of his spectacles, Shampoo could not tell if the look that the long-haired boy directed at her was one of anger, or hurt. She felt an unsettling sensation creep into her gut that she quashed immediately.

"Mousse clean up," she said eyeing the brown stain that seemed to have finally ceased expanding across the floor. "I need to talk to Great-grandmother, find out what happen."

"That's what I will be finding out," a nasal voice pronounced, turning Shampoo's attention towards the door.

A short man stood grandiosely in the portal, his fists were planted on his hips and his stance was wide, chin held high despite the greasy spot that marred his blue shirt he wore beneath his brown, tweed jacket. Slim spectacles were balanced on a thin but squashed nose set within his rat-like face, small, beady black eyes darting furtively beneath his lenses and crooked teeth protruding from his pinched frown.

"Who are you?" Mousse asked in a flat voice, leaning his hands on the staff of his broom as he glared at the newcomer.

"Are you the owner of this restaurant?"

"No."

"Then you don't concern me," the man said stiffly, turning his nose up at the robed boy jaw hardened, fists tightening on the mop handle.

"Excuse me, _miss_," somehow the sneer the man added to that word made it an insult. Shampoo wrung her cloth in her hand, twisting it in a white-knuckled grip as a substitute for this fool's neck. "Who is the proprietor of this restaurant?"

"That would be me, sonny-boy," Cologne said, her words followed by the tap of her cane against the tiles as she hopped to Shampoo's side. "The ambulance is on the way, check on the customers," she whispered from the corner of her lips before facing the small man. "And who are you?"

The man's eyes had narrowed behind his lenses, the action carving lines into his brow and crinkling his nose in a way that enhanced his rodent-like character, glaring at the matriarch's shrunken form like a mouse that had found something new in its cage, something that didn't belong. After a moment he started, as if just realising that the old woman had spoken; reaching into his pocket he pulled out a folded slip of leather that he flipped out like a cop in all those American movies.

"Sudo," he proclaimed in a voice that seemed to expect a fanfare. "Genkuro Sudo of the Food Sanitation Division: Nerima branch, and I am closing this restaurant."

The cloth fell from Shampoo's hands as her fingers seemed to go numb. A gasp seemed like a cannon shot within the silence that had enveloped the room, and shame pinched at her heart as she realised that it was her that had made the sound.

"Closing," Mousse repeated, his body stiffening as if electrified.

Genkuro shot each of them a withering stare before clearing his throat with aplomb. "As an emergency precaution valid under the food sanitation act, I am empowered by the Ministry of Health and Welfare to close any restaurant suspected of spreading food borne illnesses."

"And you suspect us, hm?" Cologne surmised. She had never even swayed on her cane at the man's pronouncement, simply watched him with flat eyes the colour of ancient stone.

"It's hard not to," he sneered, rolling his eyes towards the young man at the table.

Like the larger customer who had remained with his whining companion he had finished vomiting and slouched bonelessly in his chair, head hunched until his chin leant on his chest that pumped with every one of his laboured pants. He stared at the puddle of brown slime spread across the table with a detached gawp that was further enhanced by his glazed eyes and unfocussed pupils.

"First time this happen," Shampoo protested, earning a sigh from her great-grandmother and a dark glower from the health inspector.

"My Great-Granddaughter is correct, we have been in business for nearly two years now and we've never had even a single complaint about our food."

Genkuro snorted, "Well something is wrong now, perhaps some new _spices?_"

Shampoo watched the man's lips twist as he said the last word, his voice seeping with contempt like foul pus. She could almost hear the hidden qualifier, never verbalised but spoken loudly in his oily tone: _foreign, _as if Japanese spices were somehow superior.

"Whatever it is," he continued. "We will find it. Until then you are forbidden from preparing, serving or selling food on these premises or anywhere that it may be consumed by the public." He reached into his jacket one again, withdrawing a bundle of pink and white papers folded across the middle which he handed to Cologne.

"You'll find all the relevant information there."

"Really," the matriarch said, a slight bite of dryness lining her voice. "How fortunate that you happened to be carrying such information as you passed by."

The man's eyes widened and he clamped his bottom lips beneath his protruding incisors, gnawing on the pad of flesh. The expression vanished in an instant, replaced with an even darker scowl and a red flush colouring his cheeks as he snarled.

"That's not important," he spat in Cologne's face, before clearing his throat as he adjusting his green striped tie. "The Nekohanten will be subject to a thorough inspection and samples of both your raw ingredients and cooked meals will be tested at a laboratory designated by the Ministry of Health and Welfare for harmful substances of both a chemical and biological nature. Your storage and sanitation procedures will be thoroughly assessed as will those of your principle suppliers. Though I doubt we'll find anything there."

The surety of his voice galled her, she felt herself start to smoulder. "This no fair."

"Life seldom is," the man replied with smirk.

"Shampoo, go and look out for the ambulance," Cologne said sharply.

"But, Great-grandmother, this wrong. I bet he crooked."

"That is a serious accusation, young lady," he said with a quirk of his thin eyebrows, his cadence again making the word 'lady' into a slight. "A person could get into serious trouble by making such an accusation without proof."

Shampoo felt her hand stiffen, her first and second fingers shaping themselves into a dirk of smooth skin and hardened bone. A metallic rasp echoed in the still room, the sound of steel sliding upon steel.

"Enough," Cologne snapped, her thin rasp somehow cracking like the lash of a whip or the sound of thunder tearing the air. "Shampoo, Mousse, both of you, outside. I will speak with Mister Sudo about our situation. I don't need you two making an even larger mess for me to clean up."

Shampoo swallowed a lump she had not known she had been holding in her throat. "Yes, Great-grandmother," she said quietly stepping behind the Amazon elder as much to avoid the foul little man as the reeking vomit on the floor.

"Fine," Mousse said sullenly, releasing the mop from his right hand and letting it clatter to the floor. He had barely moved a step before Cologne spoke again, her eyes never straying from the sanitation official.

"Mousse, put them away."

Shampoo ran her eyes across the tall youth's form, her eyes fixing on the array of shining blades fanning out of his left sleeve like lethal feathers of sharpened metal. The weapons slid back into his robe as if they were an animal returning to its burrow and Mousse folded his arms across his chest, both hands hidden within the folds.

Shampoo glanced over his shoulder to see Genkuro watching them with wide eyes, jaw trembling as he breathed. She felt a warm tingle as she heard his audible gulp; however, the feeling soon turned cold and sour as she realised that it was Mousse that the man was afraid of, not her.

_Stupid Mousse_, she thought, then corrected it to _Stupid rat-man. If we were home I'd stripe his hide bloody, show him what Amazons think of ignorant, close-minded foreign men._

Her heart turned into lead in her chest and dropped through the pavement beneath her as she stepped into the street. She was not home.

Shampoo ran her eyes over the Nerima high street, the glass of the stores seeming to glare back at her vehemently. Mocking fake smiles grinned from the glossy faces on posters held by cabled frames in the store fronts, baked treats teased her with their delicious scent from doorways and even mannequins seemed to have snubbed her with their aloof postures. Crowds of awed bystanders had formed to both sides of the café, far enough to feel safe from the powers most knew that she and Mousse possessed, but not so far as to remove the dirty feeling that crept across her skin from their accusing gazes. Her eyes flickered to the horizon where the towering skyscrapers of Tokyo jutted viciously into the overcast sky, clawing at a floating swarm of grey clouds as if envious of their freedom, an envy that Shampoo shared at this moment.

How could a city as full as this seem so empty? To Shampoo it was as if the Nekohanten existed alone on a barren, featureless plain, stretching into infinity, as if there were nothing in the world but a room in a ramen restaurant, an elderly relative distanced by three generations of amassed wisdom, towering above her in a position of Amazon pride, and a simpering male who was too close, clinging to her for what she could not give yet unwilling to accept what she could..

There were others within this city once, the Tendo family for instance. Kasumi with her warm smile and calming aura, an angel on earth; Nabiki with her own smirk and cunning eyes searching for a profit, and Akane. Shampoo could not claim to be fond of the other girl, who seemed to know so little of what truly mattered, but at the same time could give so much, offering help to a girl who had threatened to kill her many times. Even Ukyo, though she could hate the chef for all that they fought over that which they had in common and he that lay between them, still Ukyo treated Shampoo as a person.

To the Tendo's, to Ryoga, to Ukyo she had a name, she had a life. That was more than she received from the other denizens of this town who saw a floozy, or transport for ramen and breasts or just another foreigner in their precious little country.

When Ranma left the connection was lost, like a cord snapping on a life-preserver sending her bobbing and drifting on a sea of emptiness. She had no reason to visit the Tendo dojo or ride into Furinkan high, there was nothing to fight Ukyo over, nothing to bring chaos into her life leaving her with a restaurant far from the hills she had grown up on and a job that made her warrior soul pine for more.

_'Home is where the heart is'_ she mused as she watched the word 'gaijin' form on the judging mouths of the crowding pedestrians.

_Where are you when your heart leaves?_

_----------------------------------------------------------------_

AN- Sorry if this seems a bit of a weird chapter, it was originally planned to be much longer but since this was already pushing in length and for synchronicity of the plot threads it made more sense to split it into two chapters. On the bright side it means you get this part faster.

I also know Mouko rendan is pushing Naruto again, but c'mon it's a combo with a short range Mouko Takabisha, what did you want me to call it? Suffice to say Ryoga will not be doing anything similar with a shishi hokodan.

Thanks go to Rob for all his help, Aondehafka to pre-reading, Larry F for hosting the fic, and all of you for reading and reviewing.

**Glossary**

**Teishou**** Kineji: **_'Singing cloth,' _An obscure Chinese martial arts technique long thought lost but has remerged through Yujiro Hibiki and his son Ryoga. Using strips of stiffened cloth, the user creates blades of air pressure through fast and precise strokes.

**Mushin**_'No mind,' _A zen term referring to a state of enhanced awareness and mental clarity that is produced in the absences of conscious thoughts, judgements and desires. Often compared with an alcoholics 'moment of clarity'.

**Kage**** Ken:** _'Shadow fist.' _A kata and fighting style of the Anything-Goes school of martial arts, developed by Genma Saotome from a range of close combat techniques and sensitivity drills found in several martial arts. It emphasises instinctive reaction and defence by predicting an opponents movements through enhanced tactile awareness.

**Heel hook: **A dangerous joint locking technique found in many schools of grappling martial arts. A fighter isolates and opponents leg using both of his own and traps the heel in his armpit or crook of his neck allowing him to crank the heel and cause extreme pain and damage to the ankle and knee joints. (_dedicated__ to Cap'n Crysallid_)

**Honou**** Ha: **_'Flame wave' _A technique of the flame form of Bagua Zhang where a large flame is ignited from the fuel on the ground (usually grass) and sent sliding towards the opponent.

**Mouko**** Rendan: **_'Fierce tiger combo' _a revision of the Mouko Takabisha created by Ranma satome by combining a short range, but densely charged ki bolt with a pattern of powerful close range attacks.

**Shinobi Shozoku: **_'Shinobi costume' _The traditional dark gi, bindings and mask worn by practitioners of ninjitsu.

**Tenchi**** ryaku no maki: '**The scrolls of heaven and earth," a collection of writings from past ninja masters detailing the essential principles, techniques and practises of ninjitsu and ninpo.

**Balisong**'_Broken horn' Tagalog_ _dialect_. The Filopino butterfly knife, a small blade concealed within a split over which pivots back to form a handle when the weapon is used.


	7. The Ladies of the Lake

Honour And Pride 

By Beer-Monster

Book II: The Eight Phases

**Chapter Seven**

**The Ladies of the Lakes**

The droplet shimmered and rippled as it slid down the expanse of pale skin, leaving a shining trail in its wake. Light danced across the trembling skin of its watery form, the orange glow from the setting sun flooding in through the shogi doors and playing across the drop like fiery sparks captured in rippling glass. It came to a precipice, having slid down a sharp slope of contoured bone and now hung, clinging to the edge until it was flicked away into the air as Akane jerked her head back and launched the bead of sweat from the tip of her nose. It hovered for the barest of instants, achieving the perfection of a flawless sphere until it was shattered into a myriad of tiny droplets as a gymnastic club flew through it.

Akane tried to swallow through her laboured pants; a hard lump had formed in her throat as she felt the tips of her blue-black tresses tossed by the air cleaved in the path of the spinning club. She heard the weapon thud against the dojo wall and clatter against the ground. Barely retaining a small sigh she stepped back into the naihanchi stance, twisting her heels out and turning her knees towards each other despite the protests of her inner thigh muscles. Her mind suddenly felt empty, numb as if her thoughts had been frozen in her head. She shot a quick glance at her sensei, noting the large man's eyes narrow fractionally behind the lenses of his glasses, and scrabbled through her brain for her place in the kata.

She thrust her right arm out straight and bent her left across her body, fist beneath her right elbow as it locked, the sleeve of her gi snapping. She then yanked the arm back to her side, clawing the air and twisting it savagely until her fist lay on her belt fingers towards the sky. Her left forearm swiped up and outwards, pivoting at the elbow as if to bat away an offending hand. She shot her right fist in a straight uppercut towards her invisible opponent.

Your opponent must be with you at all times, Genma Saotome had told her, his step loud on the dojo floor as he circled around her, watching her move through the form. Not just in the dojo when he moves and breathes, but every waking moment, even if he is only a phantom carved in your mind by your own imagination. He should be there at school and on the street as a tingling in your mind, like the mouse that can feel the gaze of the falcon from the trees. When you perform the kata, don't just move, you must see the attack and respond, feel the enemy crumble beneath your knuckles. Strike with intent, strike to win; above all never let the desire for victory leave your heart. Never. Akane squinted her eyes, brows knitting together and she frowned, willing her opponent to appear before her. It was like trying to create a person out of the air, trying to grasp at the insubstantial and glue the pieces together with fickle concentration before it slipped away. A spectre of thin lines and fuzzy form appeared and disappeared as if being transmitted across a crackling connection, fragments of its body flickering in and out of white noise. Sometimes it was male, towering above her with muscles that bulged with power she could never hope for. Other times it was a woman, its hazy half-formed body possessing sultry, feminine curves that filled her with envy. The figure's hair morphed and phased as Akane's thoughts wandered from the imaginings of her foe to the realities of her tiring body; one moment it had dark hair bound in a single tail of flickering shadow, then it would have odangos that swayed with the soft chime of bells; most often it bore a pigtail that shifted black and scarlet as the image wavered. The phantom winked out of existence with a high ring that pierced her ears … 

…and she was forced to block the medicine ball that was launched at her chest, gritting her teeth as it crashed against her crossed forearms, the hard leather biting into her skin. The impact rocked her, and she bent her knee and drove her hips down, sinking her weight lower as if sticking her bare feet to the tatami below.

"Keep going," Genma barked.

Ignoring the stinging flesh beneath her gi she ploughed on through the kata. She turned her body and pulled her hands to her right hip, her left palm pressing on her right fist. Uncoiling her body she twisted forwards, her hands swinging up until all her force was unfurled behind an elbow strike that cut into her imaginary foes chest. The fierce blow was coupled with a hard stomp of her heel, the floor creaking beneath her.

She was ready this time, seeing a glint of light playing across metal on the fringe of her vision. She turned her head to see a blur of white resolve into her sensei, his arm unfurling like a sling to cast the steel hoop in an arcing path towards her neck. Abandoning her stance she let herself fall forwards, the hoop sweeping over the curve of her spine as she stretched one arm towards the floor and rolled across her shoulders. A hiss escaped her clenched teeth, as the hard floor seemed to beat at her body, making the rough fabric of her gi rub across the still ribbon-raw skin of her neck.

Slapping her hand against the tatami, Akane came onto her feet and pivoted on her heels towards Genma. The large man flicked his wrist and sent a pink length of ribbon rippling towards her; knowing that blocking would get her wrapped like a present, Akane instead leapt to the side. Genma twisted the rod in his fingers and a pulse shot through the silk making the weapon change its direction like a snake dancing to the sound of a flute.

The ribbon traced through a quick loop and then shot low, streaking towards her left ankle. Akane leapt again, this time throwing her legs up higher than her body so that her torso felt to the ground first. Bracing one hand against the ground she pushed her body up and over to her other arm, cart-wheeling out of the path of the striking ribbon.

Lifting her head as she spun over her hands, Akane tried to keep her gaze fixed on her opponent. All she could see was his thick, gi-clad legs, one reached out to the side and hooked the medicine ball with his toes. Her eyes widened as he rolled the leather-skinned orb to him and, with the control of a Brazilian soccer player, booted the ball towards her. Akane squeezed her eyes closed and tried to brace for the fall she knew was coming.

Unable to do anything but tighten her muscles, she felt her right hand get ploughed from beneath her and she fell hard. Her shoulders slammed against the mats and her head bounced off the floor, lights flashing trough her head in coruscating sparks. Her legs and trunk came down, dropping like a chopped tree. A grunt slipped from her mouth as bruised hips jarred on the floor.

She lay there for a moment, her body flat against the dojo floor and her arms spread limply. It did not seem right to move while the back of her skull still throbbed and her heart seemed to sink through her body and deep into the earth. She let out a long sigh amidst her heavy pants, and the movement of her chest made her bruised ribs burn.

"Ow," she muttered.

Her heard her sensei release a long, long breath of air, making a gruff sound that was half sigh and half moan. "Again?" he asked, as if not believing his eyes and needing confirmation of what he had seen. Akane heard a muted smack, which she was sure was the sound of him slapping a palm to his forehead.

"Jerk," she growled weakly. Her fingertips turned white as she pressed them hard against the mats and forced herself up to her elbows. Akane's face screwed into a tight grimace as her muscles and bruises roared their protest.

"That's the fifth time in half an hour, Akane," Genma pronounced with a slow shake of his head, the knot of his head kerchief bobbing on his thick neck. "That would also make it the twelfth time since we began this exercise today."

_That explains why I ache so much, _she concluded absently, most of her attentions and energies were being channelled into gathering her sore body from the floor and trying to reduce her sensei to ash with a fiery glare.

"Instead of sulking, girl, you might want to correct the mistake you seem determined to make over and over again," Genma said, brows furrowing over his spectacles as he frowned down his nose at her, somehow seeming taller than he was.

"I am not sulking," she growled, staring daggers into the elder Saotome. "Are you going to tell me what my mistake is, since I'm obviously in the dark?" She let her words trail into a sneer, indicating exactly whose fault her ignorance was.

"I believe I mentioned something about spoon-feeding when we began," Genma drawled, hooking his thumbs in the tight space between his belt and his rounded gut, one thin eyebrow quirking as he launched his next barb. "I have given you everything you need to complete this exercise. However, if you're too stupid to work it out…" he let the words trail off, finishing his thoughts with an exaggerated shrug.

Akane could feel herself begin to seethe, her skin prickling with sudden heat until she thought her sweat would turn to hot steam venting from the collar of her gi.

"Everything?" she hissed, like a kettle reaching the boil. She fought to keep from yelling or screaming, and her body quivered from the effort. "No matter how important you feel the naihanchi kata is, _sensei,_" acid dripped from the title, "I can't see how stamping sideways will help a barrage of gymnastic equipment."

Genma snorted, "Perhaps you would find out if your tried it."

It was impossible to hold back this time. "What's that supposed to mean?" she cried. "I'VE BEEN TRYING ALL DAMNED MORNING!" She took a furious step forward, the movement matched by Genma, his face red like a thunder god's.

"DON'T FLATTER YOUSELF, GIRL!" he roared at her, before his shoulders seemed to deflate as the sound of his yell bounced of the dojo walls. Pushing his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose, he cleared his throat loudly. "There were no cartwheels in any of the three Naihanchi kata when I checked last, so I can't help wonder why you did one."

"What?" Akane muttered, blinking twice. He could not possibly be asking what it seemed he was.

"There are no cartwheel, forward rolls, flips or handstands in the kata, so why do them?" he rubbed at his chin as he frowned at her, the way a carpenter inspects a rickety join.

Akane gripped the hem of her gi, knuckles turning white as she squeezed the fabric. "Well," she said slowly, trailing the words through gritted teeth. "It may have something to do with the idiot throwing steel hoops at my head."

"Show some respect, girl, and you still haven't answered my question."

"What more do you want?" Akane growled. "You threw things, I got out the way. I thought that was the point of all this? What do you want me to tell you?"

"How about the truth?" Genma said in a tone so casual she almost missed the way his lips twisted on the last word, as if something sour had found its way into his mouth.

"Truth?" Akane'spat. "You," she said with as much contempt as she could pump into the word, "are the last person to lecture about truth."

The barb did not faze Genma in the least, who tucked his thumbs behind his belt and thrust out his chest. "I am wise enough to know when to use the truth and when to…um…bend it." His brows lowered as Akane's snort hit the air like a whip crack. "However I am not so stupid as to hide the truth from myself."

"Who's hiding?" she hissed, she felt the fire rise inside her and gripped it, like holding the hilt of a sword waiting for the draw. "I'm not hiding anything, from anyone."

"The answer to my question is that you are trying to match Kodachi."

"Isn't that what you claimed you would teach me? Or were all those words about hard training just smoke to stop your wife from skinning you," Akane spat, folding her arms beneath her breasts, her body quivering with fury.

"I said I would help you defeat Kodachi, not match her, and that is what you are trying to do. Or perhaps it is Ranma who you wish to match?"

Akane sniffed sharply, "Why should I want to match anything that pervert or that psycho does?"

As her words hung in the air they seemed to become splintered by the sound of breaking wood that echoed within the vault of her memories, blending with an image of her fist smashing through the dojo wall. Her eyes had widened and the sound of a gasp, she distantly recognised as her own, floated in the air as she realised her target had disappeared. Her eyes rolled to the top of her head and saw what had once seemed a red and black blur but now, through the perfect lens of hindsight, she saw a beautiful girl seemingly float through the air like a swallow in flight, scarlet braid trailing behind her as she pushed her body into a elegant spin and somersaulted behind Akane's stunned form.

Like a mocking slap another memory came to haunt her, starting with loose threads of thought, the scent of rose petals, the sensation of rough wooden rungs beneath her hands as she climbed the ladder to her roof, and weaving together into a rooftop at night.

The moon had been full, riding high in the sky like a bright pearl. It's light lit the woman's pale skin until she glowed in the night as she leant over the young man, her bound hair like a tail of darkness and the perfect contours of her high cheekbones framed with luscious black curls. The boy beneath shivered with a breathy gasp; a rational part of her mind told her that it was a reaction of fear as the boy found himself rendered immobile by the dust clinging to his lungs. However another part saw trembling lust as the pale girl licked her red lips in a way that seemed so sultry and so sexual, Akane could feel her stomach grow bleak with envy as she recalled it. She gripped tighter to her anger, purging the cold with its heat until it vanished like vapour, wafted away on the wind.

"Grace, talent, ability," Genma said in the present, driving the words at her with an insufferable smirk that suggested that he had read her thoughts. "The same as so many others these days, they see the films with their high kicks and fancy effects, and they decide they want to do martial arts." he snorted. "As if that can be called martial arts."

"I'm nothing like that, I'm a serious martial artist," Akane protested, jerking hard on the ties of her belt.

"Is it really that different?" Genma asked slyly. "You watch Ranma and Kodachi flip and jump throughout their match and you want to do it too."

Akane glowered "Is that so wrong? That's how Ranma won that match, after all."

"Is it really?" The large man said softly. "I'd suggest you rethink that, and also remember that Ranma fought Kodachi in a rhythmic gymnastics ring. That fight would've lasted less than two seconds if Ranma hadn't played by the rules, and since Kodachi seems unlikely to do so when she comes for you, it won't take her that long to cripple you if you decide to give her the empty show you've given me so far."

Akane swallowed hard as a lump like a chunk of bitter ice seemed to swell in her throat. The ribbon marks around her neck blazed, reminding her of what lay on the line, and she felt a small tremor slide down the curve of her spine. Seizing the hot fury once again, she beat at the black dread gnawing her guts and stuffed it deep within her, flinging the excess lava at the man in front of her.

"Well, Mister Saotome," she growled, pounding out each word like a blacksmith's hammer. "If you know so much, stop telling me what I can't do and teach me something that I can."

"Such as?" Genma asked, the words drawn out on a tired sigh that made Akane's teeth grind.

"ANYTHING!" Akane cried, the word exploding from her as she threw her hands up, slashing the air with a fierce arc.

Her sensei bowed his head until his eyes became fixed on the floor and shook his head slowly, the knot of his bandana sweeping along the collar of his gi. His wide shoulders heaved and then deflated as a long sigh slid from his nostrils.

"Oh, that it has come to this," he said softly. Then his posture snapped upright, his head thrown back as he wailed at the heavens. "Oh, what woe has befallen the Anything-Goes School of Martial Arts," he cried, a river of tears falling from his thin eyes. "The foolish young heir runs to distant lands and leaves the Tendo dojo without a true martial artist to defend it. How it breaks my poor heart."

Akane jerked as if slapped. Since Genma had taken the reins of her training she had felt herself grow closer and closer to an invisible barricade, a barrier drawn in the sands between teacher and student, daughter and houseguest, spouse and father-in-law. Each insult that fell from the lips of the Saotome master battered against that wall like a seiging army pressing at the gates. As Genma's words now hung in the air, the wall fell with crash that Akane could hear ring within her mind.

"I…am…a…true…martial artist," she bit out through clenched teeth, each word making a quiver run through her body and her nails bite into the flesh of her palms. "You JERK!" she roared and threw herself at the fat martial artist.

Genma tensed, his eyes narrowing as the flow of false tears ended. The blade of Akane's foot thrust towards his solar plexus, and he barely moved. He pivoted on the ball of his right foot, bringing the left towards himself until the heels met at a wide angle. He had not advanced, retreated or side-stepped yet Akane's kick missed him completely as his broad body slipped from its path the way the matador escapes the horns of the bull.

His hands simultaneously drew two opposing circles in the narrowing gap between them as Akane's momentum brought her crashing towards him, launching a fist from her hip. His left hand swept her leg further aside whilst his right knocked her fist the opposite way, opening her body like swing doors. The hands completed their arc, closing tight to his breast before shooting out, one atop the other with the heels of his palms touching and fingers splayed, like the jaws of a pouncing tiger.

The strike slammed into Akane's chest, shocking her sternum and mashing her cleavage painfully. Her gasp rasped in her own ears as air was expelled forcefully from her lungs and her leg seemed to leap from under her, letting her fly backward until her back bounced off the dojo wall, rocking the sign in its mountings. She grimaced as she arched her spine and pushed her shoulders back already feeling the ache settle upon her shoulder blades.

Genma yanked the hem of his gi jacket stiffly, pulling the material taut beneath his belt and closing the fold that revealed the swollen curve of his gut. He cleared his throat gruffly before speaking, not even meeting Akane's blazing glare.

"I think that has determined which of us knows more of the Art and its nature."

Akane scowled, eyes narrowing at the bald man whilst she pressed herself against the wooden slats of the wall and began sliding herself to her feet. Just as she raised her bottom from the tatami, she grimaced and pushed forward, unwilling to give Genma the satisfaction of watching her use a support to pick herself up. Here eyes widened when she found it far easier than she expected, the muscles of her back and chest throbbed with the promise of dark bruises, but did not truly hurt. The relief then turned sour, like cream curdling in her mouth and her jaw tightened as she realised that Genma had pulled his punch.

"How can you say you know about the Art?" she muttered in a low voice. "Your greatest technique is running away."

Genma's mouth compressed to a thin line and the muscles of his jaw bunched in a way that made the cords of his thick neck stand out. "Stupid girl, you have just proven me right," he said, eyes thinning to baleful slits behind his glasses. "Martial arts are not about techniques."

"Garbage!" Akane yelled. "Of course it's about the techniques. The fighter with the stronger techniques wins, that's how Ranma beat Ryoga and Ryu Kumon and even Picolet. The technique is what makes the victory. "

The large man's head swivelled towards her slowly. His eyes were wide behind his lenses until the irises were surrounded by a ring of white and his eyebrows tried to crawl beneath the band of his head-wrap. "What?" he gasped, the sound dying as his mouth worked silently. Then he frowned, staring at her as if he had never seen her before, as if he could not believe she was standing there in the flesh.

"You don't get it," he said finally, his voice gruff but quiet, anger and pity melding in the deep rumble of his tone. "Everything you've seen since my son and I first came in here, all the battles that idiot has gotten himself into, all those fights that he has won, many of them fought for you, and you still don't get it."

"Get what!" she growled.

"I can't tell you."

"YOU NEVER CAN TELL ME," she roared. "All this wisdom you claim to have, oh master, but you never share it. How am I supposed to trust it?"

"You don't need to trust me," Genma snapped. "Just do as I say." His face softened and he sighed. "Akane, I cannot tell you, this most of all. It's not a mere hint, or a rule of thumb. What you are missing is the very foundation of the Anything-Goes School of Martial Arts. It is like a religion, you cannot simply know it you must live it, every minute of every day that you are alive. You cannot be told, you have to find it and feel it down inside, knowing it is the truth."

Akane snorted but said nothing, her mind unable to find the hole that would allow her to launch a proper retort.

Scowling, Genma pivoted on his heels and slowly began marching towards the doorway, heels thudding on the tatami floor with each step.

"We can't go on until you take the truth into your heart and accept it, no student of Anything-goes is complete without it. Until you come to know this principle you will never be a true martial artist."

"What is that…?" she began, taking an angry step forwards but Genma overrode her with his more powerful voice.

"Stop whining and yelling, girl," he barked. "Kodachi wants you dead, you have no time to complain. I would suggest you start thinking. Hard!"

"Think about what?" Akane spat. "How the hell am I supposed to discover this magical answer when you haven't even told me the problem?"

That made Genma pause mid-step, his right foot hovered above the floor for a moment before he pulled it back and placed it softly beside his left. Akane could not see his face, only the grimy white wall of his gi pulled taut across his back.

"Start where you went wrong," he said finally. "You've watched Ranma fight but you don't understand, so think back to **how** he fought and how he won. Picture him in your mind, every movement, that shouldn't be too difficult for his fiancé."

"Who wants to think about jerk?" Akane griped immediately. However, as the words faded from the air an image had already accreted in her mind. It was Ranma, lips curved into a grin that made her heart beat against her ribs from the recollection. In her mind she watched him smirk as he ducked beneath the swipe of Kuno's bokken, but where the Kendoka was a slightly blurred, watery figure, like a portrait rendered in runny ink, Ranma was resolved in perfect detail. The light shimmered across his silken shirt whilst shadows played across the angles of his face; even his morning-sky eyes glistened with more life than any photograph.

Akane shook her head, casting away the memory before it could draw her in too deeply. The image shimmered and fragmented like the reflection in a pond when a stone was cast into the still water. The sound of wood rattling drew her eyes to the door that Genma had slid open, pausing as he stepped through.

"Remember the Hibiki boy in particular, Akane. Ranma has fought him many times and won." He paused and cleared his throat with aplomb before stepping the rest of his body through the shogi door. "When you can tell me which technique is more powerful, the Chestnut Fist or the Breaking Point, then I will continue to teach you," he declared and then he was gone.

"I DON'T NEED YOUR STUPID TEACHING!" she yelled after him as the door clacked shut, she echoed the sound with a stamp of her foot. _What kind of stupid question is that? _she thought, balling her hand into a fist and marching towards the pile of cinder blocks stacked in the corner of the dojo. Ranma beat Ryoga with the Chestnut Fist, so obviously it was stronger. Wasn't it?

---------------------------

Nabiki's long fingernails clacked softly as she drummed them against the table, beating out a slow march with idle ripples of her fingers. She blew at the strands of dark, brown hair that fell across her brow eyes rolled to the top of her head, watching the locks waft in her expelled breath. She tried to ignore it but that itchy feeling, like the point of a needle slowly stroking across the back of her neck, persisted. Something seemed to prickle at her from inside her skull, calling her, drawing her eyes to the pencil on the table.

She turned back to the TV, her eyes staring towards the animated figures face faulting on the screen. The tingling persisted. Her fingers drummed faster against the wood surface, the beat becoming jumbled and erratic.

Swallowing a growl she relented and leant over, gripping the pencil between her thumb and forefinger and pivoted it, the butt whispering against the table until it was aligned parallel to the edge. Sighing as the scratching ended, she sat back and returned her gaze to the television before a loud thud filtered from the direction of the dojo. Her eyebrow quirked and she darted a sideways glance at her father.

As she expected his hands were balling around his newspaper, the edges crumpling in his convulsive grip. A stream of smoke spiralled above him as the cherry red tip of his cigarette devoured the white stick and transformed it into a long strand of ash; then he exhaled, sending twin blasts streaming from his nostrils. His right eye twitched, dropping the ash from his cigarette but he remained still. Nodoka glanced up from her embroidery and shot him a warm smile but he did not register it and it had twisted into a sour frown as she went back to her sewing.

Her father had never reacted well to change, especially when it involved his family and particularly not when it touched his youngest daughter. Now, Ranma's departure had been rapidly followed by more dramatic shifts in the balance of their lives; Genma had taken over Akane's training, and Kodachi had actually tried to kill her.

Nabiki knew just how much Soun depended on the younger Saotome; his hopes, his family and his daughter were like casino chips all placed over Ranma's number and now he was waiting for the roulette wheel to stop spinning. She also knew that he would be waiting for a long time as the hand of fate kept giving the wheel another spin and the ball kept on bouncing.

Life was always a gamble, but to rest all your hopes on one number was a foolish way to play. You had to risk something to gain anything in this world, sacrifice brought reward, even Akane knew that, but no reward was worth risking everything for. For every dice roll that brought fortune there would be snake eyes staring back at you to take everything away, or there was that person who was dealt a hard hand, like her mother.

However with life, as with gambling, there were many ways to play. In Nerima many seemed to enjoy the races. Her father, her sister, the Saotomes, Shampoo, Cologne, Ukyo; all of them had put everything on the aptly named, 'wild horse,' an animal who chewed at the bit and rallied against any jockey that tried to ride him. It was unlikely that he would even finish the race.

So much risk for such a vague and insubstantial reward. That game was not for her. Better to spread her bets; smaller rewards, but more tangible, and losing would not cost her everything.

Best of all was to invest. Life was like the exchange and people, secrets, hearts were all stocks like the carefully managed shares that had kept the Tendo household in moderate comfort for so many years. The key to it all was information; when people were your stocks you had to know everything about them. Did they have any secrets, any lovers, what did they like to eat and what were they allergic to, how did they sleep, did they argue with their parents or their wives?

Somewhere amidst all those details, titbits and trivialities was an answer, buy or sell, stay or fold, lie or tell the truth. Informed choices and carefully calculated risks: control, that was how Nabiki Tendo played the game.

Still, sudden changes altered the market and even as skilled a player as she was, she could not feel comfortable with the threat of crash lurking within the shifting field.

Her eyes caught the movement of a white shape in her peripheral vision, and she slid her gaze to the corner of her eyes just in time to see Genma's dark frown switch into an easy smile.

"Hey, Tendo, why don't we see if we can fit a couple of games of shogi in before dinner?"

Her father lowered the paper and looked up at his old friend with a small frown; however, Nabiki could see the hard steel that lay behind his narrowed eyes and almost smiled nostalgically, after all it was not something she had seen in many years.

"Where's Akane, dear?" Nodoka asked, without looking up from her embroidery. Nabiki glanced at the older woman, thinking that the question was timed far too inconveniently for coincidence.

"Yes, Saotome," Soun said. "I heard some loud noises earlier, I hope she is doing well in her training?"

Nabiki smirked; it was amusing to hear her father attempt the use of subtle subtext. The man wore his heart emblazoned on his sleeve, so that the real question "_Have you hurt my little girl?_"was plainer than if he had borrowed one of Genma's panda signs.

"Just a little bit of light roughhousing, Tendo. We were working on her dodging, pushing her body a bit further than she usually does. She tripped a few times but nothing serious, a bruise or two at worse."

No trace of falseness in the larger man's voice, Nabiki noted. _So either he is much better at lying than I thought, or he believes his own words. _Of course, judging by what she had learnt and seen of the training he had put his own son through, Genma's view of 'light roughhousing' was probably very different from any sane person's.

"Bruises, Saotome?" her father repeated in a flat voice.

Genma's hands began to tug at the knot of his head covering as he let out a small chuckle. "Small bruises, Tendo, they'll be gone by the morning." He continued laughing, but his eyes refused to focus on anything in the room, drifting upwards to the top-left corner of their sockets.

"Still, Saotome, I hope you are not being too hard on her."

"Of course not Tendo, that's why I left her with a little something to think on, while her body rests up."

"Oh, well that doesn't sound too bad," Soun said, shoulders dropping slightly as the tension seemed to leak from his body. He let the paper slip from his hands as he began to move closer to the shogi table that sat in its customary place by the doors, the bag of tiles ruffled by the incoming breeze.

A high-pitched kiai split the air followed by the faint, muffled but familiar sound of concrete blocks being reduced to rubble by her sister's wrath-filled fist. Nodoka's and Soun's eyes turned withering stares on the other man, who tried to make himself small, twiddling his thumbs in his lap and whistling a random tune as though waiting for a bus.

"Akane always did have an odd way of thinking things through," Nabiki remarked conversationally, her dry words aimed at the whole room but she targeted her smirk at Genma whose face formed a sour grimace.

"What exactly did you say to my little girl, Saotome?"

"Nothing really, Tendo, you've got a spunky girl there."

"Saotome…" Soun said slowly, voice dropping to a low rasp as his eyes narrowed.

"Father," Kasumi's gentle voice broke in like the chime of the most delicate bells, and their father's anger snapped and fell into pieces as he lifted his gaze to regard his smiling daughter.

Nabiki suppressed a small sigh as she watched her entertainment vanish like a television shut off.

"Yes, Kasumi?"

"Two policemen are here to see you," her sister answered, "They said they'd like to ask you some questions about… oh, are you going, Mister Saotome?"

The warmth of Kasumi's smile never faltered but Nabiki thought she could see a small snicker in her sister's eyes. She dispensed with trying to hide her amusement herself, allowing her lips to curve into a smirk as she watched the large man start up from where he had tried to slink quietly from the room.

"Um…I'm…" Genma fumbled for words, pausing to swallow hard enough to make his throat bob. "I'm feeling a little unwell, thought I'd lie down for a moment."

"Oh dear," Kasumi said, pressing one palm to her cheek.

"Well you do look strangely flustered Mister Saotome," Nabiki said, arching an eyebrow as she drew out her words with a carefully measured dose of false sympathy. "Is that sweat on your brow?"

She watched the large man's lips twist and writhe as he growled beneath his breath, the words were muffled by his gruff voice but Nabiki could read the message in his dark glower. She felt the corner of her lips crawl higher; Genma was not as much fun to mess with as his son, but he was far more deserving of it.

"Let me see, dear," Nodoka said, shuffling over to her scowling husband on her knee and laying the back of her hand against his flushed forehead.

"Dear…please…I…" Genma spluttered, squirming under his wife's touch like a fish on the chopping block, a thick bead of sweat slipping from beneath the band of his head-kerchief.

"Well, you do seem a little warm," Nodoka surmised, frowning at the fidgeting man. "But I'm sure you'll be able and eager to help these policemen with their investigation as I know you wish to. After all, you always said that a martial artist must support the cause of justice."

"But…" Genma's shoulders fell as a long sigh slid from his lungs. "Of course, dear; that is what I always say." The sweet tone of the last sentence was marred as he forced the words through gritted teeth.

"I'll show them in and prepare some tea," Kasumi said sweetly, before gliding out of the room with angelic grace.

In the sudden silence, she realised that the violent crash of smashed bricks no longer drifted from the dojo. _She must be sulking_, Nabiki surmised, plotting the phase in the usual pattern of Akane's rage.

Genma had sullenly returned to his place by the table before Kasumi returned leading two men into the room. The lack of uniforms immediately caught Nabiki's interest and she felt herself sit straighter on her futon, craning her neck to observe the men over Kasumi's smiling face.

The taller man wore a dirty brown tie that clashed with his wrinkled pinstripe shirt, the knot hanging loosely from his unbuttoned collar. Creased leather straps stretched over his left shoulder. Nabiki's eyes narrowed. He had a gun in a holster over his heart, its black steel barely visible. This was definitely more than the usual half-assed property damage complaint.

Turning back to the policeman's face she saw that he wore a small, polite smile that seemed out of place on his grim, stubble lined face. Wrinkles pulled at the corners of his eyes as he surreptitiously peered at every figure in the room

The other man dispensed with any such niceties, staring openly at everything, the steady sweep of his gaze reminding Nabiki of a camera. His brows furrowed beneath his grey-streaked parting of brown hair and the twinkles of light in his eyes gave the illusion of a lens twisting as it focused on her father, her sister and the Saotomes and recording every detail. She felt pins and needles tinge around her head as she met those grey irises, watching him as closely as he watched her, something intangible lighting the air between them like two camera flashes igniting simultaneously.

"Father, these two policemen would like to ask you a few questions."

"Of course," Soun said with a small, but wobbly smile. "However, I'm afraid we know nothing about any panty thefts."

The older cop's eyes narrowed as the other man blinked rapidly.

"I'm afraid I'm not sure what you are referring to, Shihan Tendo," he said in a gruff voice suffering a terrible attempt at smoothing, like an uneven path.

Her father blinked and then chuckled richly, "Shihan? That is something I've not been called in a long time."

"Really? You are the Master of this school? An old partner of mine studied under you some years ago, Masataka Nakayama?"

Soun's lips pursed as he folded his arms across his chest. Nabiki wondered if the guests could hear the rusty cogs of her father's mind grind as he thought.

"Ah yes, Nakayama. Studied with us for a while before he was transferred to another koban across town." He cleared his throat and suddenly became fascinated with plucking a loose thread from the worn black fabric of his gi. "I'm afraid that was a long time ago, I no longer teach classes anymore."

"Sorry to hear that, I had heard rumours of the dojo's involvement in some recent _events_." The policeman's voice seemed to pause on that word as he watched Soun Tendo's face pale at the mention.

"Well I wouldn't put too much stock in those rumours if I was you." Soun said weakly, his cheek twitching as he fought to retain his smile.

"Why not? They're all true," Nabiki drawled with a small smirk, ignoring Nodoka's frosty glare and watching her father's body jerk.

"I'm sure they are all embellished as gossip tend to be," the detective said, as the gravel seeped back into his voice. "However, we have heard that you are familiar with many strange and obscure styles of martial arts, and it would help our investigation if we could ask you a few questions."

"I'm sure we will be happy to help in anyway we can," Nodoka said with a bright smile before Soun could reply. "My husband here is a martial artist too and I'm sure he can be of assistance, can't you dear." The auburn haired woman placed a hand onto Genma's broad shoulder and the large man seemed to shrink into his gi.

"Yes, dear," he said, his voice tiny.

"There you go, Mr…" Nodoka trailed of expectantly.

The detective started and his mouth twisted for a brief moment before he spoke. "I'm sorry."

He cleared his throat, pursed lips indicating how uncomfortable his manners were making him. "I should have introduced myself earlier. My name is Inspector Izumi of the Metropolitan Police Homicide Division and…"

His words were cut off as Nodoka's and Kasumi's simultaneous gasp sliced the air in the room, their hands covering their mouths as their eyes widened on their white faces. Her father had stiffened, his body freezing like a statue. Only his lips moved, slowly shaping the word 'homicide' though no sound came from his mouth. Nabiki had felt her smile drop from her face as if weighted, but her brain seemed to buzz as she leant forwards on the table, propping herself on her elbows as she watched the policeman shuffle impatiently.

Strangely enough, only Genma remained unfazed; the man who squirmed under the eyes of his wife and the police officers seeming to melt away like ice on a summer's day. He crossed his legs as he sat straight on his futon, arms crossed across his wide chest. His lips were tightened into a frown but the light that played on the lenses of his glasses made it impossible to tell where it was directed.

"What do you need from us?" he asked flatly.

Inspector Izumi's shoulders seemed to slump as he sighed silently, lips moving as he muttered beneath his breath. "As I said, we only wish to ask a few questions to aid our investigation."

"So you said, Inspector Izumi," her father said, before pausing to swallow and straighten his back. "However I'm afraid I can't see how we could help? None of us know anything about any sort of…homicide." Soun's voice seemed to stumble over that word.

The other man spoke for the first time, gesturing to a slim folder held in his hands by rapping his fingers against its plastic covering. "We have reason to believe the murderer is an exceptionally skilled martial artist. We were hoping that your expertise might help us gain insight into the killer's methods. Once we have that, we have him, or her." His head tilted like an owl's as he caught Genma with an appraising stare.

"This is Shigurei Toshiyama, the crime scene investigator assisting with this case," Izumi said, indicating his companion with a stiff nod of his head. Toshiyama's lips curled slightly as he bowed.

Nabiki was still processing this information, eyeing the man from the new angle provided by the introduction when Nodoka spoke.

"I'm sure you're very good at your job Mister Toshiyama, but you must be mistaken. Martial artists uphold justice and protect the weak, surely one would not commit murder," she paused; lips pursing for a moment before adding; "unless it was deserved."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees as Nabiki watched the Saotome matriarch from the corners of her eyes and tried to ignore the tremor that slid down her back like a drop of icy water. The older woman sat comfortably with a vacant smile, her hands folded in her lap as she blinked at the stares that had turned on her in the moment that her words had hung in the air.

Izumi sniffed, making a sound that seemed half laugh and half-scoff and looked ready to speak. However, he said nothing as Nodoka's wide-eyed gaze sharpened into a knife-like glare. Her husband flinched at her side.

"My experience of this job has taught me to assume that everyone is capable of such acts, that way I'm less likely to be surprised." Toshiyama said before frowning and tugging at the unbuttoned collar of his blue shirt. "Though it is good to hear that some people still believe in what's right, Ma'am."

Nodoka blinked once again. "Sorry, my name is Nodoka Saotome, I'm a friend of the Tendo family as is my husband."

She gestured to Genma who sat up straight, large chest puffing outwards.

"_Shihan_ Genma Saotome," he said, voice heaving with pride and self-importance. Soun's eyes narrowed as he turned to his old friend and even Kasumi's smile wavered at Genma's words. Nabiki sighed and rolled her eyes.

"Saotome," Izumi murmured with a frown. "That name sound familiar."

Genma winced. "Really?" he said in a weak voice. The man's spine was like black ice; it could harden until diamond could not break it but would soon melt away to water and slush.

"Any relation to Ranma Saotome?" Toshiyama asked.

Nodoka's face lit up like exploding fireworks and for a moment Nabiki thought she saw stars twinkle in the other woman's blue-grey eyes. "Ranma is our son, have you heard of him?" she gushed. "Have you seen him?"

Toshiyama pulled harder at his collar. "I've heard of him. He was quite prevalent in the rumours that brought Inspector Izumi and I to Nerima."

Ranma's mother smiled wider until her proud grin threatened to split her face, "No doubt you have heard of my son's manly adventures."

"Or his womanly curves," Nabiki added snidely, hoping to derail Nodoka's rant of motherly pride before it made her too nauseous. The older woman had moods like the seasons, swapping from sunny and slightly vacuous cheer to cold fury like an arctic winter. However, Nabiki preferred the darker moods of Mrs Saotome than to see her playing her 'good mother' whilst she still bore that _sword_. Her lips twisted sourly.

Nabiki had known a good mother and Nodoka was a pale comparison.

"Well…" Nodoka said, words falling away as the smile melted from her lips.

"Right," Izumi said after a moment, eyebrows crawling towards his hair as he drew out the word.

Toshiyama looked to be frozen solid but for the bunching of his throat that made his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. He was mumbling under his breath; a disjointed string of words that Nabiki could barely catch. "You mean…I thought…just an urban…how… scientifically…?"

Nabiki smirked. For all his talk about crime scenes and the darker nature of man, the forensics specialist seemed rather troubled. Another piece of evidence for the simple truth that no one is unflappable: a fact she knew well and had studied how to exploit. Everyone had a flaw; that was where the darker side came from. Give a scientist something that was impossible, that could not be explained, and they cracked like an imperfect diamond.

Izumi laid a hand on his colleague's shoulder and gave a tiny shake of his head. Toshiyama nodded, though for a second a pout flashed over his features like a child deprived of a toy.

"Anyway," he said, clearing his throat and hefting the folder in his hand. "I have some photos here, pictures of the crime scene and victims." He glanced furtively at Nodoka, Kasumi and Nabiki before turning to her father. "Mister Tendo, some of these images are quite graphic; perhaps it would be better if we spoke to you alone, and Shihan Saotome if he wishes to help."

"Oh dear, is it really so bad?" Kasumi asked in a small voice.

Izumi nodded, a grim frown darkening his face. "It's pretty gruesome."

Nodoka was already gathering herself from her futon, one hand braced on her husband's thick shoulder for support. "Of course, Genma will be happy to help." The fabric of the elder Saotome's gi creased as Nodoka's sharp-nailed grip tensed on his flesh through the thick cloth. "Why don't we go to that nice little tea shop we found the other week by the market. We can have a nice chat and leave the men to talk about this ghastly business."

Nabiki rolled her eyes, "Sure thing, Auntie," she said, loading her tone all with the bile that the woman made churn in her gut. "Then we can bake cookies and knit whilst the men-folk go hunting."

"Nabiki," her father snapped with a frown. "We have guests."

She almost laughed outright at that statement. After two years as the trigger point for wild chaos and rampant property damage, to even think about preserving the family's reputation was too ridiculous for words. She rapped her fingers on the table top, trying to ignore the sensation of Nodoka's glare scoring across her skin like the scraping edge of a blade.

"I'm staying," she said after a while.

"I'm not sure that would be a good idea," Soun said, Kasumi nodded in agreement.

"Nabiki, if these pictures are as bad as Mister Toshiyama claims, I don't think it would be proper for you to see them. What if you get nightmares?" her sister said in matronly tone.

"Nightmares," Nabiki snorted. "I'm nineteen, Kasumi, I'm old enough to know nightmares are just the ramblings of an unsettled subconscious and too many chillies. I've also seen enough horror movies and crime dramas not be to freaked out by a few snapshots." She caught Toshiyama's searching gaze with a determined glare of her own.

"Besides, I know this part of town well, maybe I could help" she offered the man a small smile, putting a little shy sexiness into it. Her only response was a raised eyebrow that said too many things at once.

_Smarts that aren't overridden by his lower brain,_ Nabiki surmised, confident in the appeal of her own beauty. _Interesting._

"Nabiki, right?" Izumi asked, regarding the young woman from the corner of his eye a crooked frown twisting his lips. "I've heard of a Nabiki Tendo from the local koban officers and her reputation for having her finger on the pulse."

"Oh stop, you'll make me blush," she drawled without a glimmer of modesty.

"Of course you realise that this is _sensitive information_." The cops gravely voice hardened on the words until they were hammer blows. "If any person, were to sell this information, they would be jeopardising our investigation and be subject to _severe_ penalty."

Tucking a wisp of brown hair behind her ear, Nabiki felt the policeman's threats wash over her. "Never would I dream of it," she said with her trained 'angelic' smile. "After all, as a martial artist's daughter, it's my duty to help defend the innocent and all that stuff." She threw aside 'that stuff' with a rolling gesture of her hand. Her father and sister beamed at her whilst Genma gave a choked snort, which dissolved into a chorus of coughs.

"Frog in my throat," he mumbled under her glare, batting his upper chest with his fist.

"Well, I still do not think a young lady such as yourself should be involved in such business, Nabiki," Nodoka said, standing up and smoothing the folds of her kimono with aplomb. "Are you sure you'll not join Kasumi and I? One of the young men at the tea shop is quite handsome, and about your age."

Nabiki scowled, her tapping fingernails now gouging at the table. "I'm positive," she hissed through gritted teeth.

The older woman sighed as if the world's burdens were crushing down on her shoulders. "Very well." Her usual smile was back on her face the instant she turned to Kasumi. "Should we go then, dear?"

The oldest Tendo sister nodded gently as she rose to her feet. "Let me just grab my purse from the kitchen."

"Nonsense, Kasumi," Nodoka said, flicking her wrist in a soft shooing motion. "It'll be my treat, I'm sure Genma doesn't mind." The smile she gave her husband could have flattened a rhino.

"Of course not," Genma said, his voice strained as if the words were being ripped from him. Nabiki thought she saw his left eye twitch sharply.

"That's settled then," Nodoka ushered Kasumi towards the shoji door with a soft hand on the small of the younger woman's back. "It was nice to meet you Inspector Izumi, Mister Toshiyama; I hope Soun and my husband will be able to help you put an end to this foul business."

Kasumi also offered warm pleasantries that from anyone else would be empty and fake, but from the smiling lips of her gentle sister they could not be doubted. The two women slipped through the door, a biting gust of chill winter wind sweeping through the room as the portal slid closed after them.

"So, Inspector, should we…" Soun trailed off as he blinked upwards at the two policemen, and frowned. "Oh, I'm sorry, please sit down, both of you. Forgive me for not asking you before." He rubbed at his moustache as he chuckled, the sound vacant and flat.

"Thank you, Mister Tendo," Toshiyama said as he slipped into the spot Nodoka had vacated and then shuffling a respectful, and probably more comfortable distance from Genma's heavy form until he was at the table's corner.

"No problem at all," Izumi said, his hands rummaging in his pockets and withdrew a pack of cigarettes. He was slipping one of the white sticks from the foil before he froze, his movements halting instantly as he flicked his eyes towards Soun. "Do you mind if I…?"

Her father continued to chuckle, "Not if you don't," he said pulling out his own packet and clamping a cigarette between his teeth.

The policemen jerked his head towards his companion who held the open folder in his palm as he thumbed through the contents, his hand flashing back and forth as he licked his thumb before turning each page.

"Why don't you start, Shigurei, you're the educated one." Izumi grunted around his cigarette his face illuminated by an orange glow as he sparked the silver lighter in front of him. His cheeks sunk as he sucked the cigarette into ignition and then released a grey stream of smoke through the corner of his lips, the acrid scent mingling distastefully with the fumes wafting from her father's smoking.

"Thank you, Detective," Toshiyama replied dryly, arching an eyebrow towards the man beside him, before turning towards Soun. "The first murder, or should I say the one that opened the case for Izumi and I, took place a week ago in Dogenzaka." He shuffled through the contents of the folder, eyes flicking from the pages to his audience and back. "As Detective Izumi said, this evidence is sensitive and the information we were hoping to gain from your consultation is quite specialised, and so I'll only be showing you the images and documents I think are most relevant to the killer's methods and martial arts style."

He placed a photograph on the table; light shimmered across the glossy surface as he nudged the image towards the centre where her father and Genma leaned forwards to study it. She simply tilted her head and frowned, the image was of an alley complete with the dark shadows, oily stains and discarded litter that marked it the same as any other. However, the next photo that the scientist tossed forth focused on a single patch of that untidy passageway, a crude humanoid shape scrawled on the tarmac in thick lines of white chalk. Another photo followed: a commercial dumpster, dented and torn with wet patches of blood that made it seem as if the steel body was bleeding.

"That alley leads behind a nightclub, _Parusu_, which has apparently had some trouble with yakuza and other unsavories in the past, so no one was surprised when the bouncer went down the alley. He was apparently spoiling for a fight, though no one saw his opponent."

The fourth photo was a headshot of a figure lying on a cold mortuary slab. The face shown was broken and distended, the dead flesh so livid with swollen purple bruises as to be barely recognisable as a man.

It bore no resemblance to the patchy portrait on the copied driving license stapled to the photograph.

"Tetsuo Matsuhara, known as 'The Tank' for his reputation as a tough bouncer and unbeatable brawler."

"He looks fairly beaten to me," Nabiki muttered, the words springing from her mouth before she knew she had thought them. Her father frowned at her but she ignored it, reordering her mind after the shock of the comment that had slipped through what she hoped was not a crack in her walls. She glanced back at the photo of the deceased bouncer and swallowed a lump that had formed in her throat. Dropping her eyes to her interlaced fingers she noticed a loose thread on her sleeve, the stray fleck of white cotton seeming to mock her like a protruding tongue until she ripped it out with a swift pluck.

Toshiyama cleared his throat and continued. "The cause of death was found to be a hard blow to the back of the skull." A new page showed the ghostly x-ray image of the victim's cranium, a series of black cracks and thick fissures through the bones like chips in dry plaster. "We believe this to have been caused when the victim was slammed into the wall." He flipped through his folder, the pages rustling as a few stray leaves of paper tried to escape through the bottom. His eyes narrowed for a moment before he placed the topmost sheet before her father and Mister Saotome. "This is what first suggested the involvement of a skilled martial artist."

"Dislocated shoulder," Soun declared as he poured over the x-ray. He scratched at his bristled moustache with his left index finger whilst his right hovered above the image, tracing the line of the ulna where it was visibly displaced from the socket of the shoulder bone. "Twisting the forearm and the elbow like a crank about the upper arm, or vice versa, would force the bone out of joint like that." He leaned back on his futon and shrugged. "It's a common technique with several variations."

"Look a bit closer, Tendo," Genma suggested, rubbing at his chin as he peered closely at the x-ray. "The angle of joint, the way the bone seems pushed forward suggest the arm was twisted up and back. _Shiho nage_." He pronounced with a nod and a small smile.

Nabiki grimaced slightly; her father and his long-time friend seemed far too comfortable with the subject at hand. _Hell, they could be commenting on a past shogi game over cups of sake_, she thought as she regarded each man in turn, the furrow of her brow deepening. She controlled the uneasy feeling that was rising in the pit of her stomach, beating it down with clubs of will until it was a mere tremor in her gut.

Toshiyama glanced at Izumi; a satisfied grin flashed over the grizzled cop's face for an instant and then was gone, lost in the thickening wreath of cigarette smoke about his head.

"That was what we had deduced as well," the forensic investigator admitted before turning back to his portfolio, gripping another sheet between his thumb and forefinger. A shimmer of light reflected from the page suggesting it was another photograph. "This victim also had his forearm snapped but his left knee was dislocated too."

He put forth the image in his hand and two others, the first revealing another x-ray. It showed what Nabiki guessed to be Tetsuo Matsuhara's injured knee, the thigh and shin bones poised at an acute but unnatural angle and the kneecap separated from the cracked edges of the bone, floating in the black, fuzzy blur that represented the dead man's flesh.

"Oh well, that's clear enough," her father claimed, tapping his finger on the picture with emphatic surety. "A hard thrust-kick to the knee joint. What do you think, a rear leg cross-stomp, eh Saotome?"

Genma shook his head. "Angle's too sharp, Tendo. Also, this sort of wound would take more power than a stomp kick would have if it came across the body. A hard, side thrust kick would fit the pattern better."

Soun grimaced, his brow knitting as he stared across at his old friend. "You really think so, Saotome?"

"Um…am I missing something?" Toshiyama said quietly as if unsure whether he could intrude on the two men's deliberations.

_Probably we all are, _Nabiki groused silently. _Stupid, martial-artists-only old boys club._

Soun shook his head, negating away the younger man's concerns with a placating wave of his hand and a reassuring smile. "Nothing important, probably has no bearing on your investigation." He paused and took another drag of his cigarette before heaving out the smoke with a sigh. "It's just using that technique in that manner is a bit tricky, you have to lift your knee high before stomping on your opponent, which telegraphs your intentions whilst leaving you off-balance and giving your opponent ample chance to counter. If Saotome is right, your victim would have to have been rather off-balance and vulnerable."

"And…?" Izumi grunted expectantly.

"Nothing really," Soun said with a shrug and a grin. "Just call it, 'professional curiosity.'"

"Riiight," the policeman said, drawing the word out with a puzzled frown.

Toshiyama shook his head, and reached back into the all-important folder he held nestled upon his palm "The strangest part of the case, is the rather unique wounds all victims share." He lifted out another photo yet paused with it held before his face. The scientist's eyes fixed on the images and then gazed intently at Nabiki above the rim of the film. His blue eyes were like a microscope and she could feel their touch, appraising her, studying her. Finally he relented, some conclusion made within his mind, noted but never uttered, and placed the photograph onto the table.

"We believe this wound was made with the murderer's bare hands."

Nabiki looked down at the photo, the image of a misshapen slot punctured into the pale, waxy flesh of the corpse made her stomach lurch but she controlled it and let out a long, shuddering but silent breath. She forced her eyes back to the photo, trying not to stare at the torn muscle that had been washed clean of blood by the coroner and was now clearly visible through the wide wound, and ran her gaze around the rim of the photograph, her eyes catching as she saw thick, callused fingers tremble like a schoolgirl's.

The ghost of Genma Saotome sat frozen at the table, the colour having fled his face entirely. His eyes were wide and glassy as he stared into the distance above the heads of the other men, who bent over the latest image in close study. The expression that twisted his face, unmoving like a fly perceiving its own destruction as it drowned in hardening amber, suggested what he saw did not exist in this world but in the deepest circles of hell. His lower lip shuddered until he clamped it beneath his teeth and he folded his arms across his chest, clamping his hands hard under his armpits in what Nabiki guessed was an attempt to hide and control the wild shivering.

"Well, that is odd isn't it, Saotome?" her father remarked. Again his voice was strangely mild despite the gruesome picture his eyes rested on.

"Yes, Tendo," Genma agreed, his voice weak and breathless. "Very odd."

"Are you okay, Saotome?" Soun glanced up from the photo, arching an eyebrow towards his long-time companion.

"Fine, Tendo" the larger man said quickly, too quickly. "I'm just feeling a bit of a sudden chill." Seeing his friend glance towards the shogi door, as if to confirm they were fully closed, Genma hastily added, "I'm sure it'll pass Tendo, we have more important…business." Nabiki watched with suspicion as the man's Adam's apple bob as he swallowed hard.

"I can see why you think the wound was made by a hand. The knobbled edges could be the marks of the fingers if someone used a spear hand strike," Soun said, lifting his right hand over the picture. His fingers were pressed together tightly with a slight curve caused by a small bend in his middle finger, the thumb was folded at a right angle across his palm completing the weapon. "However, it would take some rigorous and specific conditioning of the hands to do such a thing with a _nukite_."

"Daddy, Ryoga can poke holes into stone with a finger," _Before they explode,_ she silently added. She spared a sideway glance at Toshiyama's dropped jaw before continuing. "Not to mention Ryu Kumon almost put a hole into Ranma with that Yamasenken of _his_," she left a slight pause which let that last word hang in the air as she shot Genma a withering glance. The plump man never noticed, his eyes darting at the image of the wound and then at the doors and back with a crazed focus.

Soun slowly shook his head, "It's not quite the same, Nabiki; they were using brute strength," he told her, his arm sliding out to grab his discarded newspaper and pull it to him.

He turned back towards the two guests, separating a single page from the bulky newspaper. "If you were to try and stab someone with just brute strength…" he lifted the sheet of printed paper over the table at arm's length in his left hand, then, with speed she had not seen him use in years, his right hand thrust forwards like a spear, fingers tearing through the page. "…you would just create a large hole," he finished, looking at the two scientists through the large, oval-shaped hole he had punctured.

"If, however," he said putting the torn sheet aside and pulling a new one from the tabloid, "you used something more suited to the task, something stiff and sharp…" He leant over to grab the pencil she had carefully aligned with the table edge earlier and jabbed a small hole, almost perfectly round, into the paper "…you get a much more exact shape."

"I hadn't realised it was school science lab," Izumi said, slowly expelling a long trail of smoke from his nose.

Her father smiled as he set aside his paper and reclaimed his own cigarette from where he had balanced it at the edge of the table. "Some things are better shown than said," he said with a shrug.

"Sure, Daddy," Nabiki deadpanned before she heaved a sigh and snatched the pencil from in front of him and placed it where it belonged, its length parallel to the edge of the table.

"So you're saying our man has undergone some training to make his hands tougher and hardened enough to act like a spearhead?" Toshiyama concluded, flipping through his notes.

"I take it this training probably involved a lot more than those one-finger push ups and sand hitting you see in all the kung fu movies?" Izumi asked; making a waving gesture with his hand and scoring a fading trail of smoke with his cigarette.

Soun frowned; her father had never been fond of the stereotypes shown in movies and anime. "Undoubtedly," he grunted. "However, such exercises are often the first step of many in such training methods."

Izumi scowled, "So are there a lot of the 'make your body into a brutal weapon in your own home' styles about?" The cop cursed under his breath after her father nodded. "I don't like that sound of that, especially if it makes our guy harder to nail down."

Nabiki snorted. "If the other examples of 'rigorous training' I've seen over the last couple of years are anything to go by, I don't think you have anything to worry about."

"My daughter is right," Soun admitted, though with a distinct grudging and reproving glance. "Not many would undertake such training lightly and it would definitely leave a trail for you to follow, especially if you could pinpoint the killer's style. I have my suspicions, but I should probably hear what else Mister Toshiyama has to say before I make wild guesses."

The haunting images of more crime scenes, more corpses and more broken lives followed. The image of the brutal rent in the join between the second victim's collar and neck, splintered bone visible through the ripped skin and tissue, made her blood run cold in her veins but Nabiki detached herself like any photographer from their subject. Reality often seemed distant when a moment in time was frozen in a photograph and thus taken from the moving flow of life, and she had long since learned to take comfort in that separation.

It was a skill it appeared Genma Saotome had never acquired, as each new image seemed to flog him with an invisible lash. He shrank into himself as her father and the two policeman tossed theories and information back and forth across the table, answering his friend's guesses with non-committal grunts or half-hearted words of agreement, his eyes downcast and staring fixedly at his hands as they twisted at the fabric of his gi pants.

_Some detectives,_ Nabiki thought dryly as she watched the other three men pour over the photo of the poor security guard, dead by a single finger, and completely oblivious to the panic that wafted from Genma in waves so thick she thought she could see the haze surround him.

"Well, your killer is very familiar with the body's vital points, it seems," Soun concluded, shaking his head as he considered the man's death.

"Aren't all these hyper-powered martial arts types?" Nabiki asked with a sigh, remembering how Akane had immediately recognised the importance of Shampoo's arrangement of instant-Nannichuan sachets during the battle with the dojo destroyer, and, recognising her sister's less than prestigious place in Nerima's martial rankings, she was not inspired with much confidence.

"Great, another dead end," Izumi grumbled, apparently thinking along the same lines as she was.

"Not necessarily," her father proclaimed. "Knowledge of the accessible vital points, of which the carotid artery is one, is common. Many schools, including the Tendo ryu, would teach their location to advanced to students, despite reservations about their use in combat. However, precision knowledge of the position and depth of the vital points and the stomach meridian as demonstrated here," he leant across and tapped a finger on the photo that showed the gory hole jabbed into the security guards neck, "require study of much more detailed _kyusho_ diagrams, such as those contained within the _Bubishi_."

"The bubishi?" Genma cried, snapping from his grim reverie with a start. His brow furrowed beneath his headscarf as he turned to his old friend. "You're thinking Karate?"

"Why not, Saotome," her father asked, nodding towards the pile of photographs scattered across the surface of the table "It would fit what Mister Toshiyama has shown us. The shoulder lock technique is within the _Kushanku_ form and the low thrust kick in _Bassai_."

Genma opened his mouth, leaping to the verge of speaking, before he closed it with a faint click and slumped back into his futon. The panic has lifted from his posture but a troubled frown creased his dark face and made Nabiki all the more curious as to what he had been about to say, and what had frightened him so.

She glanced at Toshiyama and Izumi's knotted brows and sighed. "Daddy, it's nice that you're on to something, but could you perhaps translate for us mere mortals."

"Oh, right," a sheepish look flickered across Soun's face as he fussed with his gi sleeves. "The bubishi is a book, a collection of strategic and technical articles on the martial arts that made its way to Okinawa from China centuries ago and had a large effect on the Okinawa schools of fighting, what are now known as Karate. It also seems to have influenced your killer as well."

"It's been a while since the Master has shown Saotome or myself a copy of the scrolls he had 'acquired,' but they did contain a series of diagrams showing the location of kyusho, which with the right instruction would explain some of the wounds on your victims. However, the real crux of it is that the bubishi also describes the training for the _Rokkisho,_ the 'six wind hands,' which would give a person the type of hand strength and conditioning to cause the kind of damage we've seen."

"So you're saying our killer uses karate?" Toshiyama asked frowning at the photographs in front of him.

"Great," Izumi snorted. "There must be hundreds of karate black belts in Tokyo alone. Hell, that probably only accounts for the Shotokan schools."

"Not so, Inspector," her father answered testily. "These techniques would not be taught in any Japanese ryu. The killer is a student of a much older Okinawan style, one that managed to resist the modernisation of karate, which reduced the teaching of dangerous techniques to the public."

Genma gave a derisive snort, earning him a sidelong glare from her father.

"So I take it those styles aren't so common?" Izumi asked, taking another long drag from his cigarette.

"Not at all, in fact I would not be surprised if this man was taught behind closed doors in Okinawa, since preserving the original state of his school must have been important."

"We could probably get in touch with the airlines, request a list of anyone who has flown into Tokyo from Okinawa." Toshiyama suggested, one hand rubbing at the stubble on his jaw. "Though we should probably check records for any more murders to eliminate other regions from the sweep."

"You could also check the security cameras at the airports. They might have caught your guy at the gate," Nabiki said, considering the increase in surveillance that had swept Japan's airport in the wake of fear from terrorists.

"We could," Izumi conceded, "but since we don't know who we're looking for it seems a rather long-shot."

Nabiki sighed and then let her lips form a smirk. "Take it from someone who's seen _plenty_ of martial arts nuts in her time. You'll know the guy when you see him."

Soun and Genma scowled, and Ranma's father mumbled curses beneath his breath, but eventually her father nodded. "Nabiki might be right," he grumbled. "I'm not sure how good your cameras are but if you can see his hands clearly you would immediately be able to identify your killer."

"His hands?" Izumi asked around the butt of his cigarette.

"The _rokkisho_ training, and methods like it, disfigure the hands after long periods of practise. The knuckles swell and become thickly callused, the fingers are usually broken several times and becomes crooked, the fingernails are lost and the skin becomes thick, cracked and…"

His explanation was cut as a shrill whining cut the air, growing louder in volume like a wailing infant until it seemed to fall into a vapid tune. Izumi pulled out the crying device, flipping open the phone and holding it to his ear. Nabiki almost snickered; what sort of cop had the Fruits Basket theme song as a ring tone?

"Izumi," he grunted into the receiver. "Doctor Egawa, how are you? No, I don't, I was trying to be polite." The conversation swiftly fell into muted grunts, barely discernable as affirmations. "We'll be there." The phone was snapped shut and stuffed back into the pocket of his trousers.

"I'm afraid Shigurei and I must be going Shihan Tendo, Shihan Saotome," he said as Nabiki had expected; unclamping his cigarette from his yellowed teeth and grinding out its flame into the ashtray.

"Oh," Soun said, still puffing away at his own cigarette and sounding just the right amount of disappointed. Nabiki almost suspected it was genuine, after all it was not often that someone came by to see him, much less someone who actually respected the excitable old sensei. "I guess it's just as well. I'm not sure what else I could do to help at this point, I'm afraid." He offered them a small smile, rising to his feet as the Inspector did, Toshiyama joining them after he had gathered all of his evidence and filed them away in his folder.

"I'm sure the information you've given us will be useful," the scientist said, raking a hand through his greying, brown hair. "Based on what little info we have to go on, you've given us more than we had."

"Although," Izumi said, fumbling in the pocket of his overcoat as he folded it over his arm. "If there is anything else that occurs to you, any thoughts of what this guy's motives are, or if he's just as your daughter says 'another nut' which would seem to be the case, please let us know." He proffered a business card which her father accepted with a quick glance and that Nabiki resolved to take care of later.

"Of course," Soun agreed immediately before giving his counter-offer, "and if you have anything else you'd like to discuss with me, or Saotome, we'd be happy to oblige." He kept on smiling, ignoring Genma's dark mutterings. "Nasty business this is and the Tendo dojo is of course determined to aid your investigation in anyway until the killer is brought to justice!"

Nabiki groaned quietly, letting her head fall against her palm and rubbing at the bridge of her nose with thumb and forefinger as her father punctuated his speech by striking a finger towards the sky. _So close_ she lamented. _They were almost out the door, nearly an entire visit without an outburst. We were so close. _Her hand fell away and her shoulder slumped with a resigned sigh. _Be fair, Nabiki, this still had to be some sort of record for him._

"Um…thanks." Toshiyama stuttered, "That's…nice…to hear."

As they led the two policemen to the door, her father began tapping his chin with a thoughtful _hmm._

"Inspector," he said whilst Izumi stepped onto the porch waiting as Toshiyama reclaimed his shoes. "I've just had another thought."

_My, he is on a roll today, _Nabiki thought drolly. The grizzled cop said nothing, but his eyebrows quirked with interest whilst his companion stepped to his side.

"The training for the 'six wind hand' forms, the 'iron bone hand' in particular, often requires the trainee to use liniments and hand baths made from herbs, many of which are hard to come by." Soun paused, his words being trapped as his mouth compressed into a tight line. "I don't use such herbs myself but I know someone, an acquaintance, who knows a great deal about herb-lore and its _uses._" His lips twisted into a sneer as he formed the last word. "She's known as Cologne, you'll find her at the Nekohanten, a ramen restaurant in town."

Nabiki bit back a wince, hoping that she could have kept this to herself for longer. "Daddy, the Amazons are no longer at the Nekohanten."

"Really?"

Nabiki nodded, ignoring Toshiyama mouthing the word 'amazons' to Izumi's answering shrug. "They had a problem with the health department, apparently a load of people got sick there; the place is closed whilst they do an inspection."

"Oh," her father blinked before a large grin broke his face. "That's good news."

"Um…Daddy," Nabiki sighed. "Guests." She nodded her head towards the two cops who looked back with wide eyes.

"Um…right," Soun pulled at the collar of his gi with a small blush. "Good news that no one was seriously hurt."

"Sure Dad, they'll buy that," she muttered, before addressing Izumi "Anyway, I'm sure I can find out where they went for you, Inspector." She took the card that her father still clutched in his fingers.

"Thanks," the cop said with a nod. "Well, Shihan Tendo, Miss Tendo, thanks again for your help."

"Don't mention it," Nabiki said quickly before her father could say something stupid.

With a last nod Izumi began to stalk up the path, Toshiyama following at his heels with the folder of gruesome images tucked beneath his armpit. Nabiki watched them go, fading shadows in the dying light of the sun, and felt her father at her side, also watching. The icy worm of fear that she had buried in the pit of her stomach began to wriggle against her guts. Suppressing a shudder she looked up at her father, an aging shell of a man she had once thought to be the strongest in the world.

"Daddy," she said, not quite knowing why her voice sounded so soft. "When you said that the killer was a high level martial artist, do you mean on the level of the people who usually come looking for Ranma?"

Her father started down at her for what seemed like a long time, an expression on his face that she could not remember seeing since her mother died. "Yes, or even better," he replied.

"Don't those kind of people usually come _here_, looking for Ranma."

This time her father did not answer, his posture stiffened as he spun on his heel and walked back into the house. A cold wind ripped through the road, stroking her cheek with an icy caress as Nabiki followed him, her eyes lingering on the road that led to her home.

------------------------------

"So, what do you think, Shigurei?" Izumi asked as they approached his blue Nissan, already setting a new cigarette to his lip and sparking a flickering flame on his lighter.

"The fat one, Saotome, he's hiding something," Shigurei replied, adjusting the folder under his arm before clamping it to his body tighter.

"Well done, Shigurei, it's nice to know all those years at university weren't wasted and you can still state the obvious."

Shigurei's eyebrow rose as he glanced at the detective. "Well, I'm sure your years, and years, _and years_ of experience allowed you to see through him right away," he deadpanned. "However, why didn't you ask him about it?"

"Watch the age jokes, Toshiyama," Izumi grumbled around his cigarette butt. "Asking him would have done nothing. He would have just clamped up, the others too if I had pushed it." He jabbed his hand into his pocket before pulling it out and flicking his keys back and forth irritably. "The other one, Tendo, seemed sincere enough; definitely a few bricks short of a house but sincere. His daughter is a sharp one, too. I think it might be worth a look at the passenger lists, and I definitely want to look into those herb stores."

"Think it'll be enough?"

"It's your job to make it enough, Shigurei," he said and then sighed, smoke trailing away on the breeze. "No, I don't think it'll be enough. I've asked for more patrolmen, many from other areas, to spend a shift or two here, ask some questions, get a bit more information on the martial artists who are supposed to run this place. I'll have someone keep an eye on this bunch too," he added, casting a dark glare back towards the Tendo household.

"You don't trust them?" Shigurei asked, though he already knew the answer. There was little that could be mistaken about the older man's scowl.

"I trust few people, Shigurei," Izumi said, unlocking the door of his car and pulling it open. "It's not about that." The detective swept the tail of his overcoat back, making as if to clamber into the driver's seat but pausing. Izumi stood straight and caught the scientist's eyes with a sharp stare. Shigurei could feel those eyes bore into him through the hazy veil of cigarette smoke wreathing Izumi's form.

"I've heard the rumours about this place. So have you: water that can change people's forms? A boy who can make stone explode with a touch and a guy who shattered a statue with a gesture?"

"If those rumours are true, they would have to repeal nearly every fundamental law of physics, Izumi. They have to be exaggerating." Shigurei said with a scowl, his mind swarming with mass-energy conservation laws and mechanical formulae. If those rules were false, how could all the cars, TVs and computers for which they are the foundation work? Though many beautiful theories had been slain by an ugly fact, and if these martial artists were neither con artists nor fools, the possibilities were…Shigurei could barely begin to fathom them.

"You can say that if you want, Shigurei, but they seem to believe it," the detective answered, jerking his head towards the dojo. "If only half of those rumours are true, that's still enough to make my blood freeze. We already have a nutcase who can shred frozen flesh with his fingers. What if even more of them went off the deep end? What do you think would be the result?"

Shigurei remained silent, his stomach tightening like hardened pine-sap. It was a bleak line of thought that Izumi had offered.

"You're talking about something that is beyond unlikely, Izumi," Shigurei muttered. "But what do you plan to do about it?"

"The only thing I can do," Izumi grunted, slinging himself into the car. "Watch and wait."

-------------------------

The cold teeth of the night bit through Ukyo's tunic as she stepped outside and she hunched her shoulders against the chill air. Gusts of wind ripped up the empty street, throwing candy wrappers against the walls of the shops and sent empty paper bags rolling along the pavement like tumbleweeds. The red cloth of her store's banners slapped against her arms as if in protest at her touch when she seized the pole, the cold metal stinging her palms. Her chestnut locks writhed in the wind, plastering themselves to her cheeks and filled her vision with a waving brown haze.

Pushing herself back through the door, she set the banner against the wall and felt fatigue sink over her, as if she had plunged to the bottom of the ocean. Her feet dragged along the floor, each one seemingly made of lead and she doubted she could summon the effort to lift them, so she continued to slide towards the grill. She gave up halfway and fell into one of the booths with a sigh. Leaning back until her head rested on the wall, she propped her elbow on the table with the other hand folded across her belly, her legs stuck out over the edge of the cushion hovering above the floor and pulsing with the relief of not bearing her weight.

Ukyo slowly let her eyes drift shut with another sigh. She rubbed at her right shoulder, the muscles cramped and taut after hours of incessant okonomiyaki flipping for the never-ending mass of hungry customers that had stormed through her door, in one of the biggest rushes she'd ever had. The knowledge that she still had to clean the grill and store the ingredients loomed like a storm cloud on the horizon, but she told herself it could wait for two minutes, whilst she rested her aching body and enjoyed the peace and quiet of the night.

One eye slid open; it was _too_ quiet.

"Konatsu?" she called.

"Yes, Miss Ukyo."

"Eep…Ow…Damn it!"

Ukyo grimaced and clutched at her knee. The sound of the ninja's reply, so close to her, had startled the girl, making trained reflexes leap into action and her body jerk upright, resulting in her knee banging hard against the corner of the table in the sudden motion.

"Konatsu," she growled. "What did I tell you about freaking me out like that?" She released her leg with one last rub and pulled herself up to a sitting position, glancing upwards at her assistant. "And what the hell are you doing up there?"

The male waitress looked down at her, his long tail of inky black hair had come free from its coif and hung against his cheek. He clung like a spider to the ceiling of the restaurant, arms and legs reaching behind him, spread out against two thick support beams. Even through the voluminous folds of his kimono, Ukyo could see Konatsu's muscles bunching from the force they exerted to keep him aloft, the tips of his fingers white against the wood of the beams.

"Nothing, Miss Ukyo," he replied with a sheepish look.

"Tell me, does 'nothing' always involve skulking on the ceiling like a moth?"

"I'm sorry, Miss Ukyo," the ninja said with a small voice, like a child chastised by a teacher for their reckless play. A flush of red coloured his powdered cheeks.

Ukyo looked at the unbearably cute pout on her employee's face, and felt pangs pluck at her heartstrings. "Don't worry about it, sugar," she said, summoning a smile. "I sometimes forget just that's your way."

She pushed herself back onto her aching feet, which throbbed with reluctance as soon as their burden was returned. Clawing her hair from her face, she paused a moment to examine their mussed state before flicking the long strands over her shoulder and adjusting her white bow, another sigh finding its way out of her mouth.

Cloth rustled through the air and then she felt two gentle, but firm and surprisingly large hands slowly settle on her shoulders. Deft fingers probed the definitions of the muscles, finding with frightening precision the tapered heads and ridges where the tendons and nerves connected with the bones. The fingers began to knead her aching flesh, and the throbbing slipped away under their pressure as if the pain were a scuff that could be rubbed away. Her head lolled forwards and she heard a moan in the distance.

The realisation that it was her own voice made her body stiffen and jerk straight, her relaxing muscles becoming steel armour to defend against that gentle touch.

"Konatsu," she said, and perhaps much more harshly than she had intended for in an instant the kunoichi boy was off her, five paces of space between them like the room had expanded. He also seemed shorter, a waif shrinking into his kimono, as he fidgeted with his sleeves. She could not see his face, his head was lowered with his eyes stared at shuffling feet, shining black hair veiling his features, but she could imagine the hurt expression he surely wore.

"Sorry, sugar," she said. "I'm a dumb jackass, and I shouldn't have snapped like that."

"You could never be a…" he paused, " what you said, Miss Ukyo," he continued delicately. His voice seemed weak, like cracked glass.

"The word is 'jackass', sugar" she said with a smile, "and trust me, I can be as big a jackass as ever there was." She crossed the distance between them, one hand outstretched; it hovered in the air a moment, hesitating before she laid it on her friend's shoulder. She was surprised with what she could feel beneath the smooth cotton of the kimono, sleek muscles that seemed sculpted from living stone, such a contrast to the fragile image of femininity that he painted over himself.

In many ways she could sympathise, having shrouded her own gender under baggy clothes and a coarse tone and bound her blossoming womanhood under tight bandages and a fixated quest for vindication. However, Konatsu's cover was much heavier, much tighter; with as many layers over his mind and soul as there were over a body that had been forged to the peak of male conditioning. The perfection of a man's form hidden beneath girly giggles and sighs and pretty clothes.

She pitied him so.

"Anyway," she gripped his chin gently and lifted his face to look at her. Part of her was not all that shocked by the tears she could see welling in his grey eyes. "I didn't mean to snap at you. I'm sorry. I know you were just trying to help, like you always do, it's just that…"

Her words ran out. _It's just what?_ she asked herself. What could she tell him? That she didn't want him get used to touching her? That she knew how he felt about her but could never give him what he wanted? That she was engaged and only her fiancé could touch her so? That she only wanted Ranma to hold her like that, that it was part of her plan, her dream.

It was one of her favourite scenes in the playhouse of her mind, where her hopes for the future were acted out with bright lights, beautiful colours and a happy smile on every character. She and Ranma would live together in a restaurant full of luxurious leather booths, equipped with a grill that never seemed to need cleaning, where the scent of pine and flowers always filled the air. They would close the place together after a tiring but satisfying day of serving hungry customers who all gushed about how good a couple they were, to which Ukyo would modestly blush and Ranma would put his arm around her and say that he was a lucky man. Then after, as she put away the ingredients, Ranma would set aside his broom and lay his hands on her, strong fingers massaging away her aches and making her heart beat faster in her chest.

In some strange way, having Konatsu touch her the same way, even if she told herself it was just a friendly shoulder rub, was like betraying that dream. It was the same as telling someone what you wished for after you had blown out the candles, ensuring that your wish never came true.

Ukyo let her hands fall from his face, and chewed at her bottom lip, fumbling for the right words in the depths of her brains. "Konatsu…I…"

The door chimed as it was slid open and Ukyo tried to silence her sigh of relief. Tossing the long strands of her hair over her shoulder, she barely registered that Konatsu's face had hardened into a snarl as she turned to face the newcomer.

"I'm sorry, sugar, we are closed for…" the words died as she completed her turn and found herself looking into the wild, inhuman eyes of Kodachi Kuno.

"Don't fret, witch, I have no desire to sample your common fare or submit myself to your foul potions," the gymnast said, her lips curved into a blood red smile that dripped pure venom.

Ukyo's body had tensed, lowering herself into a defensive crouch as she watched the other girl through narrowed eyes, waiting for any hint of an attack.

"You're the only one who dabbles in potions, so speak for yourself, witch," she smirked. "Wait that's not the word I want, what is it…oh yeah. Bitch!"

Ukyo slowly slipped her hand across the smooth material of her tunic, trying not to make any sudden moves. However all she felt the cotton of her lapels over the shallow curve of her bound breasts. The bandolier was gone, still lying with its spatula-shaped shuriken in the back of the pantry. Her combat spatula lay there too, leaving her unarmed against the psychotic aristocrat who wanted her blood.

Fingers of ice seemed to clench around her guts, and she took a slow step back, her wide eyes locked on the ribbon that dangled from Kodachi's hand like a sleeping cobra. She bounced against an unyielding wall, twisting around to see all trace of Konatsu's sweet, feminine features gone, buried under a grimace of cold steel.

"You seem attached to that wench, Kuonji," Kodachi sneered. "Though I am not surprised, your wicked spells and vile rituals must involve many acts of wanton depravity. You and your wicked sisters must have corrupted this young flower into joining you in your rites and into congress with beasts and demons." Her reddened lips suddenly peeled back, revealing her white teeth that seemed unnaturally bright in the shadow on her face. "I'm sure that's why you and your coven wished to have my Ranma for your own. So you could offer his soul to your masters whilst you defiled his…" her pink tongue slide over those pearly teeth, "…manly form for you own base pleasures."

Ukyo's cheeks reddened, but whether it was embarrassment or anger that had made the blood rush to her face, she was unsure. "Watch the accusations, you psycho, you're the one that'd paralyse and grope him."

Kodachi continued with her ramblings as if Ukyo had never spoken, flicking her tail of jet black hair over her shoulder, the motion making the locks appear like dancing darkness. "Perhaps that is how you took him away from me, sapped away his noble soul as a feast for the devils you serve. Or did you merely entrap and murder him because he would not submit to your evil seductions?"

A tear slid down Kodachi's white cheek, the crystalline droplet at odds with the bleak, emptiness that consumed her onyx eyes.

The sight made bile rise in Ukyo's throat even as she blinked back her own tears. "Listen, you deluded nutcase, Ranma left us all. No one took him. He walked away, from Akane, from Shampoo and even me. The only difference is that he didn't care enough to say goodbye to a psycho like you."

"Lies!" Kodachi screeched, and the ribbon besides her writhed and gnashed before lashing forwards.

Ukyo tensed but found herself spun around as a strong arm wrapped about her waist and pulled her from the ribbon's path and shoved roughly behind Konatsu's slender body. Ukyo swayed to retain her balance, watching over Konastu's shoulder as sparks of light danced in the air between the gymnast and the ninja. The slip of razor sharp silk dropped to the ground before it could touch the waitress, sinking as if the light fabric had become heavy stone. The glint of metal caught Ukyo's eyes and she saw the ribbon pinned against the floor by two bladed stars.

"Infidel," Kodachi snarled, drawing another ribbon from behind her and raising the wand to whip the bright fabric forwards. Konatsu had already vanished, leaving blurred motes swarming in the space he had occupied.

The ninja reappeared behind the rich girl as if stepping out of nothing, and time slowed to a crawl, each instant clinging doggedly to existence before allowing the next into the present.

Konatsu took the gymnast's thin wrist in his own dainty hand, his touch so gentle that Kodachi did not seem to notice his touch or his presence until her arm was twisted behind her back and forced painfully high, the ribbon falling from her numb fingers. A ray of wan light swept across the walls, bouncing of the face of the kunai that had appeared in the waitress' free fist. Every motion seemed painfully slow, and Ukyo barely felt herself scream as Konatsu brought the dagger to the far side of Kodachi's neck, his forearm carefully nudging her chin up so that it would not impede the fatal stroke. The reflected glimmer from the blade passed over his face, and illuminated a grim expression, devoid of emotion and eyes as dark and empty as those behind the widened lids of his captive.

"Konatsu! No!" Mere pieces of a second after her lips had formed the words; did her voice ring through the air, but each fraction of that moment seemed like an hour to Ukyo.

The blade stopped instantly, and time returned to its steady flow.

"Miss Ukyo?" Kodachi asked, with a blink so cute Ukyo almost forgot that he held a knife to someone's throat.

"Unhand me," Kodachi tried to demand, but her voice came out in a fragile whisper. Her body was still, as if Konatsu's grip had somehow frozen her limbs, but her eyes clawed into Ukyo as though there was a rabid beast caged behind those onyx orbs, waiting to break free. Ukyo's stomach turned as she saw a red bead of blood blossom beneath the blade of the kunai where the steel broke the skin.

"I'm sorry, Miss Kuno," the waitress said, looking genuinely apologetic. "I'm afraid I can't let you go until you have explained why you have come here to bother Miss Ukyo."

"I do not answer to witches or their familiars, you painted strumpet," Kodachi hissed. The sneer dropped from her face as Konatsu pressed the blade tighter against her pale, swanlike neck.

"I'm afraid, Miss Kuno, that I must insist you answer otherwise I might be forced to do things that are, well, not nice." A curve that was almost a smirk found its way onto the ninja's brightly painted lips. "I would also like to avoid leaving any more mess for Miss Ukyo or myself to clean."

"Konatsu," Ukyo tried to say firmly, but her voice croaked feebly, forcing her to swallow, a hard lump jarring her throat as she forced it down. "Konatsu, let her go."

The pretty ninja pouted but obeyed, suddenly appearing several paces behind Kodachi without Ukyo seeing him move. The gymnast's discarded second ribbon skittered across the floor with a nudge from Konatsu's foot, placing it well out of Kodachi's grip but Ukyo had not relaxed and neither had Konatsu. He stood with his hands clasped demurely over the knot of his obi, looking every inch the prim Japanese woman despite the small stain of bright crimson that marred the sleeve of his kimono, but the kunai still hung by its steel ring from his slender finger.

Kodachi stumbled forwards when released, her hand cradling the arch of her neck. She rounded on Konatsu with a snarl, before holding out her fingers for inspection; her smeared blood glistened wetly on the pale skin.

"You'll pay dearly for that," she hissed, before lifting her digits to her lips and removing the red stain with a sweep of her pink tongue.

Ukyo had to swallow another hard chunk of ice before she found her voice again. "Why are you here, Kodachi?"

"To remind you that retribution is coming, of course," the other girl replied with a grim smile. "Though I did find it intriguing to see your customers leave whilst your foreign sister's enterprise is ruined."

"You mean Shampoo?" Ukyo's eyes narrowed. She had heard from her customers that a bout of food poisoning had taken the Nekohanten suddenly and that the food board had closed it down for investigation. _Damn bimbo probably got one of those crazy, Amazon mind-herbs of hers. _"What do you know of it?"

"Why, nothing," Kodachi responded with a titter that made chills run down Ukyo's spine. She noticed Konatsu's mouth open for a moment over the pale girl's shoulder, but it closed again as Kodachi continued her spouting. "I just find it curious that you let your fellow witch be ruined by the food inspectors whilst you continue with business as usual. Perhaps there is truly no honour among villains, though I'm sure I'll not be the only one suspicious."

Again that laugh rang out despite the blood trailing down her slim neck, the sound clinging to the walls like thick frost.

"I told you, you nutcase, that Chinese airhead has _nothing_ to do with me," Ukyo spat through gritted teeth. "So long as she leaves me and my engagement alone, I don't care what happens to her.

"Liar! The three of you are a coven, a trio of malicious demons determined to drive the light and nobility out of mankind."

"You've really gone past the point of no return this time, haven't you? I would almost pity you if you weren't such a bitch," Ukyo growled heatedly. "Now, you can either leave on your feet or on your ass, but get out."

"You dare to threaten Kodachi Kuno?" the aristocrat said with a dark scowl.

"I'll be daring to knock seven bells of crap out of Kodachi Kuno next if she doesn't get out of my home in three seconds."

"I would take her advice, Miss Kuno," Konatsu said softly. "It has been a long night and it might be best if you left before someone does something unpleasant." His hands countered the gentle warmth of his tone as his thumb teased the edge of his kunai.

"The two of you seem to have me outnumbered, a not untypical tactic for dishonourable wretches such as yourselves," the gymnast sneered, before drawing herself up with haughty aplomb. "I shall take my leave, but mark my words, I shall have the hearts of you and your sisters, as you have taken mine."

Kodachi spun her heel, baring her teeth towards Konatsu who smiled warmly in return.. She tossed her shadowy tail of hair over her shoulder with a primly pointed sniff, and strode from the restaurant with her chin tilted high: a one-woman procession.

Watching Kodachi disappear from view as she bounded behind the top of the doorframe, Ukyo sighed, releasing a breath she had not known she had been holding. With the expelled air she let the ready tension leave her body, but without the adrenaline and focus of combat, fear and fatigue crashed down on her a thousand fold, and the strength seeped from her body. She realised her heart was pounding a furious beat in her ears and that her fingers were trembling. Feeling her knees about to buckle, she moved to brace herself against the counter top, her steps as awkward as if she walked on ice. She had been about to slip onto one of the stools, when her eyes caught on the sparkle of steel.

Two metal stars twinkled in the restaurant light, pinning a tongue of rose-coloured silk to her floor. A streaking razor sharp ribbon speared as easily as one might stab an errant piece of okonomiyaki from a plate. Glancing towards where her gender-confused assistant was closing the door in Kodachi's wake, Ukyo felt the room grow cold. She pushed herself onto her tottering feet, balling her hands into her fists and using the bite of her nails on her palms to steel herself.

"Konatsu," she ground out. "What the hell was that?"

The kimono-clad ninja threw himself to the floor at the sound of her voice, dropping to his knee and pressing his brow to the cold floor.

"I'm sorry, Miss Ukyo," he said immediately, trying to pushing himself further into the tiles

"Now what are you doing, jackass?" Ukyo deadpanned. "Get up."

"But, Miss Ukyo, I've displeased you," the effeminate boy said, looking up at her with large, shimmering eyes and a red-lipped pout.

"Listen to yourself, Konatsu. Do you even know what you did?"

"No, Miss Ukyo, I'm so sorry," the ninja cried, tears welling in his eyes. "Please tell me how I've failed you, I'll never do it again."

"How you failed _me?_" Ukyo spluttered, words falling out of her mouth. "Konatsu, YOU TRIED TO SLIT SOMEONE'S THROAT!" she screamed.

Konatsu's perfectly plucked and trimmed eyebrows drew into a tight furrow, and his thick eyelashes batted as he blinked. "But, Miss Ukyo, she attacked you. I tried to stop her once, but she tried again…" His voice trembled and then cracked.

_See, he did it for you, fool, now what are you going to say? _Ukyo asked herself, guilt welling up inside her like a dark liquid as she looked down upon the prostrate shinobi, who suddenly looked frail and child-like.

"I get that, sug…Konatsu, but there were other ways. You didn't have to try and kill her?" _I can handle myself_, a small voice wanted to protest, but it sounded too much like Akane Tendo for her liking, and despite her fondness for the girl Ukyo had no desire to take on her bad habits. Besides, the truth was Kodachi had caught her without her weapons

A little of her defiance must have hardened her tone, as the girly ninja's head dropped. "I only did what I thought was right, Miss Ukyo," he said in a tiny voice.

What he thought was right? Butchering someone who could have easily been controlled and disabled? Ukyo coldly realised, however, that it would not have been butchery, but a precise execution. She doubted Kodachi would have felt a thing, simply fallen to the floor already dead, her life gushing away in an arterial spray of red fluid. Quick and painless, the way a vet would put down a mad dog before its frothing fangs could harm anyone, and Kodachi had most certainly gone mad, and was certainly dangerous. But she was still a person, how could killing her be right?

Ukyo's eyes caught once again on the shining steel stars that shone in the floor of her restaurant and it all made sense. Konatsu was a ninja.

It seemed like such an obvious thing to realise, and in many ways it was. Konatsu was always skulking about the restaurant, clearing tables and taking orders whilst flicking in and out of sight like a phantom. It was more of a spark of understanding, not just that Konatsu was a ninja but what a ninja was.

Her father had once told her that the fighting techniques her family had used to defend themselves and their livelihood had their origin in ninjitsu. The tale went that a Genin of Iga fled his village before the wrath of Oda Nobunaga, and tried to set up a ninja ring within a family of travelling chefs. The need for such espionage faded as Tokugawa became shogun and so the Genin married into the Kuonji clan, using his skills to protect his new family.

Ukyo was no stranger to ninja ways, but in comparison to Konatsu Kenzan, the legendary 'super-kunoichi' of his generation, born as a man due to fate's sick sense of humour, the skills of her entire clan were like a sand castle before Himeji fortress. Though ninja were not the heartless assassins myth cast them as, death was still part of their lives, and it was with ice crawling across her flesh that she remembered when her father introduced her to his uncle, the scion of the deepest secrets of the Kuonji fighting technique.

Sota Kuonji had been a grim man, with thin eyes lined with crow's feet and a scar slicing into his top lip that set his mouth into a perpetual sneer. Ukyo remembered childishly thinking that it looked as if the man had been eating bees. He had always worn the same okonomiyaki-seller's tunic each day, the cloth threadbare and worn and the blue faded to the colour of wet cement, which hung from his thin, ropish physique.

After abandoning her true gender and years of intense practise, learning combat from her father and cooking her grill by the raging sea, beating away the ocean spray to harden her body and keep her tiny flame alight, it was decided the Ukyo should advance to the next level of training. So she and her father knelt on the floor of Uncle Sota's run-down, ramshackle restaurant, the worn floorboards splintering her knees through her pants, and asked for his teaching.

His words still haunted her, now more than ever, as she looked down on her friend and employee, a ninja on the verge of weeping.

"You wish retribution on Genma Saotome and his son, hm? Tell me Ukyo, what would you have - vindication or vengeance?" 

_"I'm afraid I don't understand, Uncle."_

"_Then you have not given your quest enough thought or enough heart."_

_"It is all I have thought of for six years."_

"Then tell me, do you wish to look your enemy in the eye and have him beg, acknowledging his defeat? Or do you wish him to fall without ever knowing who or what felled him? I can teach both."

Her father had jumped in then, whilst Ukyo had sat in dumb silence, rising to his feet with red-faced fury as he told his uncle that his 'son' would get justice on the battlefield. 'Honour can only be regained through honourable means', he had said. Sota had only smirked and nodded, and then began training Ukyo for the destined challenge bout with Ranma Saotome.

It was not until much later that Ukyo had realised what her relative had offered to teach; assassination, murder, the path to get payment in blood for her abandonment by her fiancé and his father. The use of death, for that was what it was in the world of the ninja, another tool, to be used as necessary and as casually as she might use her spatula.

The word shinobi had originally meant 'one who persevered;' the name given to these warriors because they survived and flourished no matter what the fates threw at them. This was because they did _whatever_ was necessary to complete their mission, to keep their clan alive, to protect the ones they loved.

Konatsu loved her, or thought he did, and it seemed to Ukyo at that moment, it was the sickest joke in the world that she didn't love him back.

To be continued 

**-----------------------------------------**

AN- I hope that chapter was still a good read despite having a lot of theory and talking but less action. I also hope I wasn't playing 'sensei' again too much, I'm not trying to lecture on martial arts but felt it was important to show that just because Genma and Soun don't do too much they still probably know a great deal and not just on the direct martial arts stuff. I also felt it would be good to drop in a bit of background into Ukyo (another character who we know far too little about in the manga) and ninjitsu in general which will become more important as the story progresses.

Glossary 

**Bubishi: **A collection of articles on the various aspects of the martial arts, including fist techniques, history, vital points and herb lore. The manuscript is believed to have originated in Southern China but was highly valued on Okinawa where it has had a critical influence on the development of karate and other Okinawan combat arts.

**Rokkisho: **_'six wind hands'_ also '_six energy hands,' _Six hand forms or shapes described in the bubishi; used in specialised attack methods such as stabbing, clawing and tearing and striking vital points. Most of the hand forms require intense conditioning to use correctly.

**Genin: **_'Lower ninja'_ One of the ranks within a ninja family representing a field agent. Above Genin rank is **Chunin **(_Middle ninja) _a team leader and **Jonin **(Higher ninja) a head of a ninja ryu.

**Nukite: **_'Spear hand' _A technique where the tips of stiffened fingers are used to strike at soft parts of the body with a stabbing motion. Also the name of the hand form used for such strikes. Nukite usually refers to a blow using all four fingers, and strikes using one or two fingers are called _ippon nukite_ and _nihon nukite_ respectively.

**Kushanku: **A karate kata found in styles descended from the martial arts of Shuri village in Okinawa, also known as Kosankun and Kanku-Dai (Viewing the sky- greater). Named after a Chinese emissary and kung fu master, and passed to his student Sokon 'bushi' Matsumura.

**Bassai: **_'seiging the fortress, removing the obstacle' _another karate and Anything-goes kata originating from Matsumura. Also known as Passai, several variations of this form are known to exist.

**Shihan: **A high rank in martial arts. In traditional Japanese martial arts (pre-Tokugawa era), shihan usually referred to a person who had mastered the style and was given license (**_menkyo_**) to teach but had not been designated the head or heir to the school.


	8. The Clouds of Conflict

Honour And Pride 

By Beer-Monster

Book II: The Eight Phases

**Chapter Eight**

**The Clouds of Conflict**

Ranma felt a yawn rise up her throat, forcing her aching jaw open wide; however the resulting wave of fatigue evaporated as she watched the two stars piercing the black dome of the night sky, two tiny pinholes in the thick curtain of inky clouds that massing around the mountains peak. The wind whispered eerily as it swayed through the trees. Despite the now familiar burn of bruised flesh and damaged muscle that had her squirming against the wall of the cave, Ranma kept her eyes on those two particles of silvery light.

They were oddly comforting to her, as they had been for as long as she could remember. On the road with her father, they had often slept beneath the open sky or huddled in their sleeping bags beneath bushes in desperation for shielding from the rain, the stars visible through the twigs and leaves. Like any other small boy Ranma had had nightmares, images conjured from a child's imagination of what lay hidden in the shadows. Genma had shown little sympathy for his son, and little patience for being woken up by a scared boy crying about demons, ghosts and vengeful spirits. After being clipped across the ear and told to return to his dreams and fight his demons like '_an heir of the Saotome School should_,' the frightened young Ranma had strove to stay awake rather than face his fear. Alone in the night, with only the rustling of the trees and his father's bestial snoring, the boy would stare at the sky, his eyes tracing the milky wash of stars painted across the deep blue of twilight, until the monsters of his dreams suddenly seemed small, vanishing as the stars lulled him into sleep.

That kid beneath the stars, used to play a game. He would reach up from his bed roll and close the dark silhouette that was his hand around those tiny points of light, trying to seize them in his fists. Even as a child Ranma had known that he could not reach them, but for a time that only made him try harder.

Ranma let her eyes drift across the black canopy of clouds, seeking the point in the sky that her father had pointed to with pride from a thousand different locations, the spot of the celestial sphere that was home to the star of the Anything-Goes School of Martial Arts. She wondered if there was a star for every ryu, as many paths to perfection of body and mind as there were heavenly sparks against the night; and she wondered if perhaps Miyomoto Musashi or Yagyu Jubei had gazed upward at their stars as they travelled on their warrior's pilgrimage.

"You should be asleep, idiot," came the voice from behind her.

She turned towards Ryoga, a mere presence amidst the sound of rustling fabric and pained groans in the dark cave. If she squinted she thought that she could see him, a black silhouette barely discernible in the dimness.

"All I've done is sleep, for a whole day. I've had enough." Ranma muttered, her body defying his words. The other boy was right; her body felt shredded beneath her skin, every movement an effort rewarded with pain. She felt as if she had carried a mountain on her shoulders and ran across a desert. Each eyelid felt as though it weighed several tons, and each breath send sharp lances jabbing into her side as her lungs pressed on ribs she was sure were broken. However something inside of her would not let her rest; full of unknown fervour, it kept her awake despite her body's desire to slow down, to recover.

"You need to heal, Ranma," Ryoga said, then after a moment added, "If you collapse I'm not carrying you."

"Good, that way you won't carry both of us into a bear pit."

"Shut up, Ranma, this is all your fault."

Ranma sighed. "That's so dumb, I'm not even going to respond"

"Isn't saying that a response?"

A silence dropped into the space between them, even the wind seemed to fall still. Ranma blinked into the darkness and frowned. _Damn it! _she swore mentally. _I really must have been worked over if Ryoga managed to score one past me. _

She heard Ryoga sniff at the darkness. "What's that smell?"

"What?" she asked, blinking as she took a slow breath in through her nose. She detected nothing but the crisp, moist scent of the air and the strong aroma of medicinal herbs.

"I though I could smell…pine," he murmured.

Light flooded the cave and Ranma snapped her eyes shut at the sudden brightness, shielding her face behind her arm. Her retina seemed to throb and burn in her head with a sharp ache and she waited for the sensation to pass before opening her eyes to a squint. Motes cleared from her vision to reveal Ryoga, bare-chested and worn, placing an electric camp-light on the rock floor. The plastic hemisphere shone with bright yellow light like a miniature half-sun, cutting trough the cave's gloom.

"Warn a guy before you do that, jerk," Ranma griped, rubbing at her eyes. "A Chinese letch blinded me two days ago, I don't need you repeating it."

"Poor baby," Ryoga said dryly before grabbing his pack and tearing yanking the string loose. "What did you do with that damned salve, Ranma?" he asked rummaging through the bulging sack. "My skin still burns," he added, this time in a barely audible whisper.

Ranma was not surprised as she regarded the lost boy, lips twisted disquietly.

Clad in only a pair of black boxer shorts the mark of Brand's flames was plain on Ryoga's crouched form. The skin on his right shoulder was blistered and weeping clear puss onto puckered and scabbed skin. His lower legs were worse, the flesh of his skin almost purple, tinged with regions that were greyish in colour and looked like cracked hardened candle wax. There were four thin stripes were the layers seemed to have been eaten away, revealing paler skin rippled with angry red stains. Four stripes, the length and width of a man's fingers above a palm sized blister that bulged with white fluids.

It looked terrible Ranma thought, swallowing a lump in her throat. However, she calmed himself with the knowledge that the wounds seemed improved from what she had seen when she had cut Ryoga's charred clothes apart and pealed the fabric from the leaking wounds. Most of the lost boy's lesser burns had receded to a bright pink, as if he had spent days beneath an unforgiving sun, and the layers of skin were already beginning to peel in shrivelled strips.

_That stuff of his really works, _Ranma thought, rolling up her silken sleeve and staring in the new light at a series of brown bruises that had shrunk beneath a thin, pungent layer of green-white ointment.

She saw similar results on the other boy's body. A large egg on his shin had shrunk to half it former size and was beginning to turn a grimy yellow colour from its former angry blue. The bruise under his jaw had vanished and the purple swelling that had inflated his cheek and brow had retreated to a dull brown that now allowed him to open the hazel eye that had been forced shut. A myriad of other lesser marks had vanished completely, and though the cuts, scratches and scrapes that split Ryoga's skin were still present, they seemed to scab over calmly with no fresh blood.

However, she could see the pain in Ryoga's pained grimace, echoing the same agonised sensations that she struggled to keep stuffed down within her breast. Though the salve was very effective, there were some wounds that were more stubborn. She ran her tongue over her split, ruined lips for what must have been the hundredth time, despite the protests of the abused muscle. A sudden spasm brought a lance of pain rushing through her thigh muscles, forcing her to grunt between gritted teeth. The strange thing was that area bore not a single mark, no cut or bruise but it still plagued her with abrupt and terrible twitches.

Guiltily, Ranma though of the jar of green paste wrapped in cloth at the bottom of his pack. Cologne's salve, the concoction that had sped the healing of broken bones after his fight with Loaf. As potent as Ryoga's medicine was he doubted it had the powers that the Old Ghoul's mix would have, but there was just over half a jar left, and Ranma doubted this would be the last time he, or Ryoga, would find themselves in this state on his quest. Was he right to save it for greater need, when it could help them now, or when he had borrowed so much of the lost boys own supply?

Another spasm shot pain though her leg, but this time she saw Ryoga glancing at her out of the corner of her eye, and tried to cover her groan with an embellished yawn.

"I told you, you should sleep," Ryoga said loftily, thrusting an arm to the elbow in his bag as he continued to search for the salve.

Ranma glowered at the other youth. "Oh, you'd like that wouldn't you P-Chan?" he said archly. "However, I'm not going to let you cuddle up to me like the tomboy. This bod is too hot for you piggy."

"Ranma!" Ryoga snarled, fist clenching around the pack's opening.

"Don't deny it, Ryoga, I've seen that lump you carry in the mornings." Her smirk fell away as if she shuddered dramatically. She forced her sore eyes wide and made them shimmer "Oh how can a beautiful flower like me be safe around such a brute?"

Ryoga's face had become suffused with red, "Wha….I…that's not…" he spluttered.

Ranma fought to keep the grin from returning to her lips as she watched the bandanna clad boy squirm, flushing scarlet to his ears. She knew that it was not the other boy's fault, enough mornings in her true form had taught him that, but it was too amusing to watch Ryoga choke on his embarrassment.

"I guess I won't be able to sleep near you until I'm male again."

"Then it's a good thing I brought this along," a gentle voice said.

The light of the lantern glinted off Tofu Ono's round lenses as he poked his head through the entrance of the cave. He held outstretched a pale, immaculate hand that showed no sign of his journey through forest and mountain. A large thermos was gripped comfortably in his fist, his thumb curled through the ring of the lid that served as a cup handle. He eased the rest of his body through the entrance, garbed in light blue robes of thick fabric that hung to his knees, the loose folds bound by a leather sash around his waist. He wore trousers of brown canvas, tied at the calves and simple sandals, his otherwise bare feet showing no wear from the steep slopes and winding paths of Emei Mountain. His smile was as warm as always as he proffered the thermos to Ranma.

"Thanks Doc," Ranma said with a smile, sloshing the contents noisily. He tore away the cap by its ring and sent the lid spinning with a deft twist of his wrist.

"What bring you here, Doctor Tofu?" Ryoga asked, placing his pack to the side.

The older man's smile faltered, his shoulders slumping as he let a long sigh into the cave. "Ranma," he said with a slow shake of his head. "You've really gone and got yourself in some trouble." His eyes were sad behind his spectacles, as if he mourned something lose to the wind.

Ranma ignored Ryoga's accusing glare, as she fumbled for her voice. "Hey, they started it. That blonde letch called me a…" she trailed off as his teeth began to grind together.

Tofu sighed again, but his smile had returned. "No, I imagine you didn't." He glanced around the cave before lowering himself onto an outcropping of black rock, pushing his glances up the bridge of his nose with two fingers. "Master Locke, says that is an unfortunate consequence of their work that they must select the student with the strongest affinity to receive the secrets of their art, not the one who might truly deserve the honour.

"From what I've been told Master Brand is highly talented in the martial aspects of the Fire Phase, but has interest in little else. In that respect he is somewhat like you, Ranma, focussing on nothing but training in the Art and taking on new challenges."

"Please don't tell me you seriously comparing me to that jerk," Ranma grunted in disgust.

"Why not, one jerk is as good as another," Ryoga added.

"Quiet, P-Brain, you're the one who fought him."

Tofu blinked, "Is that so," he said, before his brow furrowed with a frown. "That is odd; I would have thought he would have challenged you, Ranma, since you fought with Master Willow. Although all eight masters take each other as brothers and sisters, Brand and Willow were said to have been brought to Emei from the same orphanage as children, and he thinks of her as a little sister. He is known to be very protective of her. It seems strange that he would not want to fight you after you defeated her."

Ranma felt her stomach drop, the sound of Willow's scream as the Chinese girl was sucked into the hurricane returned to her mind. She shook it away as she jerked a thumb towards Ryoga. "Ask Casanova Hibiki over there."

"Ranma!" Ryoga protested, before his rage was lost in a blush, and the lost boy tried to shrink within his corner of the cave.

"Casanova?"

"Yeah Doc, that Brand-guy apparently thought Ryoga here was making time with his little sister."

"I didn't…I wouldn't…" was all that came from the youth.

"I'm sure you didn't mean anything, Ryoga," Tofu said, waving a placating hand.

"That's for sure, Bacon-boy, is about as smooth as a rock slide."

"Shut your face," Ryoga snapped in reply.

Ranma poked her tongue out at the other boy; hearing Tofu chuckle before she upended the thermos of water over her head and the sound was lost in the ripple of magic. A scream tore itself from her throat, stifled as the cartilage swelled into a masculine Adam's apple. Pain ripped through his body as fat withdrew to allow his beaten and bruised muscles to grow thicker and denser, and his skeleton shifted and rearranged itself beneath his skin, cracked ribs protesting the cursed change. Ragged shudders assaulted him as he settled into his male form. His eyes were squeezed shut tightly, and his lips drew back as he growled his agony out. The pain eased and he slumped against the cave wall, panting as if he had run a mile in a second.

"I'm sorry, Ranma, I should have thought about your condition before handing you the water." Doctor Tofu said sheepishly, scratching at the side of his head with one finger.

Ranma managed a weak smile. "No worries, Doc, I'm the one who dunked it on myself. It was nothing I couldn't handle."

"Yeah, that's why you're laying there boneless," Ryoga remarked dryly.

"Nonetheless I should have waited until I examined your wounds. That's why I'm here after all." Tofu said, flexing his fingers so that he knuckles cracked. "I heard about your fight and it was hard to miss that huge flash of light in the sky. Rumours amongst the Order's students said that Master Brand and Master Blitz were found on the mountain and carried in on stretchers. I've not heard if they've woken up yet or not but I doubt it. I gathered that you two might not have come away unscathed, and would probably find little sympathy around this mountain."

"So you came to treat us?" Ranma surmised. "Thanks Doc"

"Thank you very much, Doctor Tofu," Ryoga added.

Tofu smiled. "Don't mention it, after all you're still my patient, Ranma. I can see that I was not wrong in my guess." He clapped his hands together, blowing on them as he rubbed his palms together briskly. "Let's start with you, Ryoga, since you're already dressed for it. I really need to take a closer look at those burns."

"Hm?" Ryoga mumbled intelligently. "Oh right," he said after a moment, pushing himself to his feet with a grimace. He stepped to the flattest region of empty ground in the cave, his body casting harsh shadows in the electric lantern light.

"Just sit down as comfortably as you can manage and relax your whole body," the doctor said, pushing himself to the tip of his outcropping, within easy reach of the lost boy. "I'd like to see your shoulders and back first if you don't mind, Ryoga."

The young man nodded, adjusting the bandanna on his brow as he sat down as Tofu had directed, his lips again twisting with discomfort as he lowered himself on his burnt legs. He sat facing away from Tofu, head bowed and presenting the blistered skin of his shoulder to the doctor's inspection.

"Tell me, Ryoga. Have you had any abdominal pains since your burns?"

Ryoga blinked twice. "No, not really."

"Any pain when urinating? Do you find yourself having to urinate more often?"

Ryoga eyes rolled upwards, as if trying to regard the chiropractor through his skull with one raised eyebrow. "Uh…no," he said slowly.

"Doc, what does that have to do with his burns?" Ranma asked with his brow furrowed.

"Maybe nothing," Tofu replied with a wide grin, "but everything is connected, Ranma. The ki in his calves is linked to the ki in his bladder and elsewhere. They share the same meridian."

"Meridian?" Ryoga repeated, seemingly as lost as ever.

"A pathway for ki," Ranma said slowly, rubbing at his chin. "Pop said they were like blood vessels but for inner energy. He mentioned them once whilst showing me some old scroll." The paths appearing as a sinuous line, connecting large dots over crude drawings of men with sticks for fingers and swirls for genitals.

"Indeed Ranma. Right now I am using my fingers to release a small trickle of my ki into Ryoga's ki channels. It is like dangling a wire and cork into a river and seeing how strongly it is pulled along by the current."

"So you're seeing how fast my ki flows?"

"Among other things. In particular I need to look for disturbances and imbalances as they are linked to damage to the body. Places where your body has been injured may have too strong or too weak ki flow. Worse, there may be regions where the ki has become too yin or too yang. Unfortunately it's very likely in your case as Fire is a yang phase."

"That's bad?" Ryoga asked, his nose wrinkling and he smelt the air.

"Very."

"Is that why you asked if P-Brain here was wetting himself?"

"Ranma!" Ryoga barked, before wincing.

"It could be much worse," the Doctor said gravely, but then smiled. "However, thankfully the disturbance does not appear to be so bad." The older man said, then let out a soft sigh. "I guess it should be expected since you are both such good martial artists?"

"That helps?" Ryoga asked.

Doctor Tofu nodded. "Haven't the two of you wondered why you both seem to heal so well and so fast. Your study of the Art has enhanced your ki flow and made it more disciplined. It can restore balance to your body and repair damage much faster than an untrained person. As you develop your ki you'll probably find your ability to heal improve. Such fast recovery from injury and illness is one of the benefits of internal martial arts such as Bagua Zhang and meditation." The Doctor adjusted his spectacles and peered at Ryoga more closely.

"Anyway much of the disturbance seems to be rectifying itself. I should be able ease the major problems and let your body do the rest. The extra yang from the fire is fading from the yang channels and the yin channels are becoming stronger. It'll take some time but they should achieve a good balance with only a little help from me."

"Wait, so yin and yang are separate inside the body?" Ranma asked in a rush. He could almost hear the cogs of his mind turn as his brain processed the data excitedly. He felt as if he had found a safe filled with riches, and his friend was slowly giving him the combination.

The doctor lowered his arms in front of him, placing one hand over the other to form a shallow cup from his palms. "Could you give me your left leg please, Ryoga?" The fanged boy obliged, wincing as he placed his heel into Tofu's hands.

"Doc?"

"Just a moment, Ranma," Tofu said tersely, not looking up as he frowned at the red, blistered flesh around Ryoga's leg. His fingers curled around the top of the boy's foot, gently pushing at the hollows between the meta-tarsal bones

-------------

The tea was warm as it ran into his mouth, invigorating him as it slid down his throat. Putting the cup back on the table, he idly ran his fingers over the pair of chopsticks, still in their wrapper as he licked his lips. He glanced up at the clock on the tearoom wall for the seventeenth time, before turning to the window, resting his chin on interlaced fingers.

He could see the man now; rearranging a row of two-for-one boxes of pocky on a sloped table outside his tiny, little market store. The wind made the offer sign flutter and the man squinted against the gust as he clamped a hand on the coloured paper, the thin strands of his greying come-over slipping of his balding pate.

The watcher took another sip of his tea, busying his mouth against the unseemly urge to sigh. He questioned this training, as he found himself doing whenever he undertook the exercise, something that was anathema to his very being in normal circumstances. His life was training, moving from challenge to challenge, keeping himself at the peak of his style and growing. However, this technique, although among of the highest of arts was almost useless to him.

He was usually a patient man. Patience was a virtue his father had thought important. His father would always find a way for his son to learn what was important. However, this technique required a great deal of waiting and effort. Two weeks had passed since he last come to this district, fourteen days he'd had to return wait for the effects. Not only did he have to be here on the day but at the right time of day, the two hour period that marked the _shichen_ of the monkey, when the ki flow surged through the meridians he had pushed at the same time a fortnight past. The strike itself had taken time and thought, like the lion on the plain awaiting its chance to pluck off the weakling. The choice of the man had been as much luck as design in a city populated by such cattle. He fit the desired age bracket. The health and speed of the ki current changed with transition from child, to adult, to elderly and the vital balance between yin and yang was different between genders. To truly master the skill, it was crucial to understand and adapt to the differences. Meridian manipulation originated in medicine; acupuncture, acupressure, shiatsu, but what was used to mend the body could easily be used to destroy it. Doctors needed to be able to treat all in need, a warrior needed to eliminate all who deserved it.

The watcher had practised this art on all types of human in the heaving masses of flesh that filled the cities and towns of the world. It had been a woman last time, just over a year ago, now he returned to the middle-aged man. The choice of this guinea pig had been part-luck part design. He had already decided that some shop-worker among this busy row of quaint stores would be suitable, and had almost chosen a skinny, rat-faced man from vending machine arcade, who had dared to glare at him from behind tiny spectacles. Then he had entered that little marker and saw the man perched, precariously on a foot-stool, stocking the high shelves.

He had seen a golden opportunity and seized it the way a falcon took the mousse in its talons. Sweeping a tinned can off to the floor, he had kicked it with a lazy sweep of his foot, sending it shooting into the leg of the stool. He stopped the shopkeeper's fall with little effort, but for rising bile he suffered to undertake such subversions, catching the man about his hips and using his fingers to push points on the spleen channel on the insides of the pelvic bone. The task was done, but he sealed it by exciting the major yang channel disguised as a friendly pat on the back; biting his tongue until it bled to stay his clawed hand.

That was other failure with this technique. The distance, the lack of the sight, smell and spirit of the Art, and the need for deceit and sneaking. He feared nothing in their world, but he loathed the irritation and time-wasting that these people brought with their reeking fear and their laws. They were just animals grazing and roaming the lands that lay above the greater world, the Watery-world.

A slightly bitter taste, like diluted lemon juice, tingled in the watcher's head. He turned his head towards the café owner who made no effort to hide his furious glare. Eighty-seven minutes the watcher had sat there, monitoring the market and sipping from tea from the pot he had requested when he first arrived, ordering nothing more. The owner's anger was probably understandable to him, but it was just an annoyance.

The watcher returned the glare with a raptor gaze, and let his ki carry his intent into his eyes and seep into the air. The colour drained from the café owner's face and his body stiffened, trembling like a leaf, before he fled into the back room with a tiny squeak. The watcher almost smiled; snakes had interesting techniques, made more useful with a little modification.

A piercing scream brought his attention back to window, where his target was clawing at his neck whilst his body was wracked with wild spasm. His eyes were wide and streamed with tears, the fear evident as he twitched and tossed, knocking his carefully arranged boxes across the pavement with a large seizure. He coughed, released stream of blood which burbled from his mouth, creating a red wash on his white shirt. Then as if his bones had melted he dropped to the ground, glassy eyes staring unblinking at the sky.

The woman screamed again, tears flooding from her eyes as she fell to her knees, shaking the body as if trying to rouse the man from nap. A mob of people formed a U around the body, some grasping mobile phones and jabbing at the numbers.

Nodding to himself, the watcher placed a few crumbled yen notes on the table, he was no thief and slipped out among the flow of customers racing to gawp at the sight. Satisfied his skills were still strong, he walked on to more fruitful training.

-------------

Ryoga's face twisted as the doctor worked, but he made no sound except for his persistent sniffing. Then, suddenly, his hazel eyes widened and he leant forwards, his nostrils flaring as he took in four short bursts of air. "It's you," he cried, pointing at Tofu.

The man blinked. "Hm?"

"You smell like pine trees," Ryoga declared in a voice that made it sound a great crime.

"Pine?"

"Pine? Are you nuts P-Brain?"

Ryoga pushed against the cave with his hands, leaning closer to shiatsu-specialist, his nose crinkling rapidly as he sniffed furiously at Tofu's scent. "I'm positive it you. I've been smelling pine since before you arrived, and it been getting much stronger since you started examining me."

"Since I started… "Tofu narrowed his eyes, his brow furrowing above the round lenses. "Is the smell stronger now?"

Ryoga blinked and then sniffed. "Yes it is, much stronger. Why are you frowning like that?" The lost boy lunged forwards suddenly, gripping the doctor's blue robes as tears welled in it eyes. "Is it bad? It is isn't it? I'm going to die aren't I?"

Ranma felt his palm slap against his forehead before he knew he had moved, and buried his face in his palm. "Idiot," he muttered. _Can't tell the moron anything without him getting them ass about face. _He wondered if the Hibiki's lack of direction sense applied to understanding sentences too.

Tofu chuckled unsteadily and scratched at the back of his head, above his tail of brown hair. "No you're not going to die. In fact it explains your good health." The doctor smiled warmly. "You've reached the next level, Ryoga."

"Next level?" both Ranma and Ryoga repeated in the same instant. Ranma scowled. _That had better not mean what it sounded like, _he thought, remembering when the lost boy had entered an empty lot with a blast of green energy what seemed like a lifetime ago_. Damned pig boy!_

"Indeed," Tofu said as he nodded excitedly. "As I'm sure you are both aware that many skills in martial arts cannot be taught but can only be developed from within over time. Most of these involve ki, and perhaps one of the most important is the ability to feel the energy in another person."

"Doc, we can already do that," Ranma said, feeling his stomach untie itself.

"What has this got to do with you smelling of pine?"

"Don't you see, Ryoga you're not _'smelling'_ anything, you just think you are." Tofu turned towards Ranma, lantern light flickering across his lenses as he adjusted his glasses. "When you said you could already do this, how do you mean?" The doctor paused a moment, and then added "Battle aura doesn't count as everyone can see that."

"I could see and feel Herb's ki in the air after he had used it, and I could feel Willow about to use the Hiryu Shoten Ha."

"How did you feel it? How did Herb's ki look?"

"Well," Ranma said, swallowing a lump as he threw himself back to that battle on the peak of Mount Horai. "It was hot and hazy; the air seemed thick and blurry. It was the same with Willow, except I couldn't see it, but I could feel the change."

"That doesn't work, Ranma." Tofu shook his head. "That was ki in use. To be honest I would have expected your father or Elder Cologne to have mentioned this, but ki cannot do anything directly."

"Huh?"

"Ki is energy it does not affect the world around it directly. Energy is the capacity to act, not the action."

"Doc, you're not making much sense," Ranma said, rubbing at his sore ribs. He shared a quick glance at Ryoga, but the other boy shook his head, his eyes wide.

The man frowned, rubbing at his chin as he glanced about the cave. After murmuring under his breath and emitting several ponderous sounds, then suddenly his looked up and his smiled widened. "Think of a bow, Ranma. When it is pulled the bow stores a great deal of energy in its elasticity, the bending of the wood and the stretching of the string. When you let the string go the energy is released in a violent snap, but it alone doesn't do anything, that's why you need the arrow to turn that energy into something substantial, something that can be used. Your body is like the bow, it can produce and store your ki, but that energy cannot act directly it must be channelled into a real action, a fist, a blast of air or heat."

"I get it," Ranma declared. "When I fought Herb, its not his ki I saw but the wasted and spent heat from his attacks."

"Wait a minute," Ryoga cut in, waving away Ranma's words with a gesture. "What about the Shishi Hokodan, if I'm not using ki to kick Ranma's ass then what is it?"

"Hey," Ranma snapped. "Don't forget who won that fight, Pork-butt!"

"Ryoga, energy has no substance or form, you can't use it to strike or hit a person. When you release ki through you hands into the air, the energy works on the air in a way as your will decides. Although it looks as though you knock your opponent with a ball of energy, it's not the ki that strikes them but rather the shockwave that is produced by its explosive release."

Ryoga remained silent, his brow set in a deep furrow. "Okay," he said after a moment, drawing the word out slowly.

"The point is, Ryoga, that before you could only perceive the after effects of what the ki was used for. However, I believe that you are now being able to feel the potential to act within the person rather than the action itself."

"And ki has a pine smell?" Ryoga asked.

"To you it does," Tofu said, his smile slipping into a smirk. "Or at least mine does."

"Lost me again, Doc?"

Tofu didn't answer, keeping his eyes fixed on the lost boy. He had shifted Ryoga's right foot in his hands, fingers finding points on the edge like a pianist finding his keys. He pushed at the skin with gentle, probing touches, reading the winces Ryoga's face as he began speaking once again.

"Tell me, Ryoga, what did Brand _smell_ like to you?"

"What would I want to smell that jerk for?" Ryoga growled instantly.

"Yeah, Ryoga, you're starting to worry me. Going around sniffing guys." Ranma said wryly, his eyebrow quirked.

"Shut up, Ranma!" Ryoga snapped, baring his fangs and shifting, preparing to lunge. However his snarl crumbled into pained grimace and a low his escaped between his clenched teeth.

"Keep still please, Ryoga," Tofu said firmly. "Stop teasing him, Ranma. I'm serious."

_Woah, first Akane and now Doctor Tofu, _Ranma thought bitterly.

"Ryoga," the doctor continued. "When you fought Brand, surely you smelt something from him."

Ryoga shook his head. "All I could smell was the burning; the smell of the fire, burnt grass and soil. My own burnt clothes too." The last was said on the crest of a low snarl. There was the smoke too. It was like being in a forest fire whilst New years fireworks went off and…"

"Fireworks?" Tofu cut in sharply, eyes intense behind his spectacles. "You could smell fireworks."

Ryoga frowned. "Not exactly, but as I fought the thought of fireworks in China and Hong Kong and the summer in America, kept popping into my head; And the ones my parents used to take me to see ,when they could find me." The lost boy's voice grew quiet. His hazel eyes seemed lost in the empty space in front of him, until they snapped back to reality and snorted. "Right until the need to dodge a fireball distracted me," he added.

"Don't you see it, Ryoga, how do you smell fireworks where there are none?"

"I don't know, there was a lot of smoke. It was quite weird that fire he threw around," the fanged youth said with a shrug.

"The smell of fireworks is quite unusual. You shouldn't have smelt anything like it unless Brand had soaked his sleeves in gunpowder. However, you didn't smell it."

"I didn't?"

"No, that how your brain perceived Brand's ki, just like it tells you mine is like pine. That's its flavour."

"Is this about food now?" Ranma asked, deciding he had been silent long enough.

The older man laughed weakly as he rubbed the nape of his neck. "I guess flavour is not the best word," he admitted. "But that's how my teachers described it to me. I'm sure you know that ki is linked closely with the mind and the spirit." Both boys nodded but Tofu was already moving on. "Each person' personality and their soul affects the ki within them, so the ki bears a certain character or 'flavour' which is unique the carries the essence of that person. Now I don't know what part of me gives what you describe as a 'pine-scented' flavour, but I suppose I should be flattered it's not something like sour milk." The doctor's face almost split with his wide grin.

"Or Akane's cooking," Ranma added dryly.

"Ranma, leave Akane out of this," Ryoga spat at him, to which the pigtailed boy replied by poking his tongue out.

"That's not nice, Ranma," Doctor Tofu said, his stern voice nullified by the twitching of his lips as he clearly fought a vain battle against an encroaching smirk. "I understand you're feelings, Akane used to bake cakes for me when she was younger. At least I think they were cakes, they were hard as rocks and…" the older man trailed off. "Anyway, Ranma, you should try to be a little kinder towards Akane, and a little more accepting. No one can be perfect, and I'm sure you've seen what a sweet girl she really is. I'm sure she was very supportive of your decision to make this training trip."

The doctor's smile suddenly seemed too bright for Ranma to bear and his eyes dropped, gazing as his hands as they balled at the fabric of his trousers. When Tofu has asked about Nerima and the Tendo's, Ranma had answered enthusiastically, but there were too many things that made his stomach twist even thinking about. He had described Mount Phoenix, its winged people and their immortal king. He had admitted he had wielded magic weapons in a fight for his life in a sky filled with wind, fire and ice. He had withheld Akane's presence in that battle, how he had held her still, naked body in his arms. He had never told anyone how cold, her wet skin had felt, or how that cold had seemed to creep into him and seize his chest in an icy grip and in that moment of loss he had screamed words whose power he had never understood until then.

Unfortunately Ryoga had apparently no qualms in telling how Ranma had left his fiancé behind, and Ranma doubted it would be a flattering tale.

"Doc," Ranma shouted just as the lost boy began to form words. The silence that followed seemed to weigh on the air of the cave after his outburst. He licked his lips as his mind scrabbled for something to fill the void, and pulled up the question that had been sitting sour in his stomach since Doctor Tofu had began.

"Why can't I smell anything?"

Tofu blinked whilst Ryoga's lips curled in to a smirk which revealed his fangs.

"Well obviously I'm far above you now, Ranma."

Ranma growled beneath his breath, muttering curses about piglets, but his gaze remained locked with the chiropractors. Tofu smiled back warmly, the gesture echoed in his eyes as he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Don't worry, Ranma, I can't either. In fact Ryoga can't actually smell anything."

"But you just said he smelt ki, didn't you?"

"I said that's how his brain _perceives_ ki," the man said, his soft, slow tone adding weight to the word. He held up his right hand, all four fingers and thumb splayed outwards. "Up to now, you've grown up with five senses. Everything you've experienced and learnt about the world has come from seeing, hearing, touching and tasting and smelling whilst your brain processes and stores that information. Now things have changed. Because of your training and your developed ki you've gained a new sense. This new sense is sending signals to your brain telling it about the flow of energy around you, but your brain isn't equipped to handle these signals. It doesn't understand. Your ki sense is speaking a whole new language to your brain. So instead it tries to work in terms of something it can understand, the five senses it is familiar with."

Ranma frowned as he considered the doctor's words, his thumb flicking at the end of his pigtail as it hung forwards, over his shoulder, so that the braid bounced on his chest. "Since you said that you can't smell anything, Doc, I'm guessing that the sense it uses to 'translate' the ki sense depends on the person."

"Very good, Ranma," Tofu confirmed; with a nod and a smile that infected Ranma and made his own lips curve. "It all depends on how a person is used to thinking about ki. I've known some martial artists to feel 'warmth' from other people, or see coloured auras. An old shiatsu master I studied with for a time spoke of meridians as lines of lights, and I'm sure to him they were. It's all about the perspective and paradigm the person uses to understand ki."

"Para…what?" Ryoga said. His mouth moved slowly around the sound as if he was tasting the new word.

"Paradigm," Tofu repeated. "Ki is energy but energy is kind of an abstract idea, and as you know, in martial arts there are a few of them. To really use and apply ki you need some sort of solid idea, a way of thinking about it that you can relate to something you know, something you've seen or felt. That idea is then usually passed through schools and generations of students so that many see ki the same way. For example the Order see ki as music and songs, which is a common paradigm, and its how I was taught to understand the energy. When I was reading the flow of ki in Ryoga just now, it felt like pressing my fingers to a stage plank beneath a grand piano and feeling the music. The flow of ki through each meridian felt like different chords and the imbalances due to your injuries felt like the pianists was hitting the wrong keys, or the strings were out of tune.

"So I'm like a song to you?" Ryoga asked, his brow tightly knitted, "We all are?"

Tofu nodded.

"That doesn't sound so bad. Much better than sniffing at things," Ranma said, shooting the lost boys a wry glance from the side. "So what do I do? And why does Ryoga smell stuff?"

"It probably has to do with his curse," the doctor said with a shrug. "A pig's sense of smell is much stronger than a human's."

The world outside of the brightly lit cave dropped away. The sound of the wind fell silent and the tree branches became still. Time seemed to stop, the space between Tofu uttering his words and them fading from the suddenly tense air stretched as if the words did not wish to slide into the silent maw.

Ryoga leapt away from the doctor as if the older man were about to explode, his injuries seemingly forgotten in his wide-eyed panic.

"You…..how?" the lost boy spluttered amongst rabid pants.

"I can feel it in your ki," Tofu said simply. "When I first began treating Ranma I noticed something strange in his ki; a beat that did not match his natural rhythm. It was quiet and did not seem to affect his ki flow, but something that sounded more intense and angrier. Like someone striking chords on an electric guitar, almost drowned beneath a full orchestra. After some time I came to realise that was the mark of Jusenkyo's curse."

Ranma felt as if something bitter had found it way into his mouth. "So the curse, is always there, a part of me." He had always known it, somewhere inside, but this time being right tasted awful.

"But how did you," Ryoga stopped and swallowed. Beads of sweat had blossomed on his forehead despite the cool night. "How did you know I was…was…" his words fell awake with a choked sound.

"P-Chan?" Tofu finished for him. "Well I knew that Akane had taken in a black piglet. Combining that with Ranma calling you 'bacon-breath' and 'P-brain' allowed me to make an educated guess."

Ranma groaned; the sound muffled by his hand as he rubbed it down his face. There was only one possible result of this revelation.

"Ranma!" the fanged boy roared.

_There it is!_ Ranma thought with a mental sigh. He slammed a hand into the wall of the cave, pushing himself onto his side as Ryoga's fist punched through the stone where his head had been. Pain wracked his body, making his head swim and his muscles scream, but he managed to bring his fist down like a hammer on Ryoga's bare toes.

The other boy yelped and leapt back, before his face twisted into a tight grimace and his legs seemed to buckle, dropping him to one knee.

"Damn you, Ranma," he ground out between his fangs.

"Shut your face pork-butt, he worked it out on his own. It's not my fault," Ranma snapped in return.

"Only because you gave him enough clues," Ryoga hissed, one hand now rubbing at his thigh muscles whilst the other hesitantly rubbed around his burnt calf.

"If you've both finished," Tofu said sternly. "Ranma I need to check your injuries, please take your shirt off and sit here." Though his words were a request, his tone made it an order and Ranma began unfastening the ties of his red shirt. His hands paused below his breast bone as he heard a long sigh released into the air.

The doctor had removed his glasses and was buffing the lenses with one of his flowing, blue sleeves. His bare eyes seemed different, darker and distant in the shadows cast by the bangs of brown hair that were now free to fall over his brow.

"I must say I'm very disappointed in both of you," he said after a moment, hands stopping in their work. He stared towards the lantern, eyes becoming lost in the light.

"I worked in that clinic in Nerima for quite some time," he said in a soft tone. "I was the assistant of the previous owner Doctor Shibuya before I took over when he passed on. I've known the Tendo family, before and after they lost their mother and I've seen the change." His eyes snapped to and fixed Ranma with a gaze that seemed to shrink him inside and made him small. "Those three girls have a lot of love to give and they need it too, especially Akane."

Ranma's heart sank into his stomach so suddenly he could almost feel it clatter on his empty inside.

"I was happy when I first met you, her fiancé, Ranma, and I was pleased when I heard Akane had found a pet to take care of; but well…" he stopped and glanced critically at his spectacles before replacing them on his face.

Ranma felt a sudden chill, as if caught under a drizzle of invisible rain. The skin of his arms rose in gooseflesh. Ranma glanced at Ryoga and squinted. The lost boy was sheathed in a faint, barely visible aura and the air around him seemed to grow thick and heavy. A sickly green shimmer played across his skin, flickering and sputtering weakly like a candle at the end of the wick. He made a muffled, choking noise and Ranma's eyes widened as he recognised the sound as a restrained sob.

"Ryoga, please stop that," Tofu said, some warmth returning to his voice. "Your ki flow is still weak and imbalanced; such depressive energy could make your injuries worse."

"But you're right," Ryoga moaned before crying. "I'M THE BIGGEST JERK IN THE WORLD"

"Glad we agree," Ranma muttered.

"From what I know of you, Ryoga, and your….problem with directions, I'm sure you life is quite lonely. I can see why you would want Akane's affection, so many people do; she's such a sweet girl. I'm just disappointed; I would have thought a martial artist would have more willpower and more sense than to confuse care for a pet for real friendship."

The doctor's words were said in his usual gentle voice but Ryoga jerked like a man flogged. Ranma saw the lost boys lips move and strained to hear a whisper that was barely more than a puff of air. "I do."

"What puzzles me, Ranma, is why you have never told Akane?"

Ranma swallowed a painful lump in his throat and said the only things he could." I made a promise." He paused, licking his dry lips. "I was my fault, kinda."

"Kinda?" Ryoga snorted, but did not look up from the cave floor. "You knocked me into the damned spring. Not to mention I wouldn't have even been there if it wasn't for you."

Ranma's fist clenched, muscles bunching as he restrained to desire to slam his knuckles into the fanged idiots head.

"Ranma?" Tofu said, question blatant in his tone.

"Ryoga had followed me to Jusenkyo," he replied in a tired sigh. "I had just fallen into the Nyannichuan and found what was wrong with me. I was furious with Pop and wanted to get my hands on him. The old man ran and I chased him and…" Ranma shook his head. "I never even saw him," he finished.

"I promised to keep his secret because of the code between warriors. I mean, one splash and the guy is helpless I couldn't let that get out. I didn't expect him to start sleeping with girls though."

"I see," Tofu said slowly. "Ranma, how do you manage to get yourself into these situations?"

"If I knew, Doc, I'd stop getting into them," Ranma said dryly.

Tofu smirked. "I somehow doubt that, it's not in your nature. Just like this mess you've gotten into with the Order."

"That was an accident," Ranma protested immediately. As the words left his mouth he became aware how feeble his defence was. _They've always been accidents, but I still end up to my neck in it. _

"Yes, Ranma, I know that but…" Tofu's words stopped as he bit on his bottom lip.

"Doc?"

Tofu slid his glasses up over his brow so that he could rub at his eyes with thumb and forefinger. "I'm sorry, Ranma, Ryoga. The Eight Masters of the Order have declared that you must leave Mount Emei and not return."

"What?" Ryoga roared. "Both of us? But this is Ranma's fault?"

"Shut up, Ryoga," Ranma snapped at the lost boy. "If that's what they want I guess there's no problem with it. I wanted to apologise to that girl, maybe beat an apology out of that spiky-haired fag, but I'm not making this trip to make more enemies, just to learn." As he spoke he saw something, a half-wince, flicker across the older man's face. "There's more to this isn't there, Doc?" he asked, his brow knitting as he lifted his gaze to meet the doctor's eyes.

Tofu nodded and his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed. "I wasn't sure if I should tell you this Ranma. It could be unkind if not cruel, or it could lead to much more trouble on this mountain. However, it also seems unfair not to tell you when you have a right to know."

"Oh my god, what is it?" Ryoga yelled in a straggled tone. His eyes shot open wide and his hands clutched at the empty air.

"We'll find out if you shut up, idiot," Ranma barked, his exasperation filling his fist as he bounced his knuckles across the other's boys head.

Tofu cleared his throat. "I don't want to give you false hope, boys. It too late, now, but you deserve to know. The Order knows about Jusenkyo."

Ryoga frowned. "Everyone knows about Jusenkyo. There's a even a guide book "

"No, Ryoga, I mean they know it more than anyone else in the world. After I mentioned to Master Locke about the strange effect I felt in Ranma's ki, and said I though it could be the due to curse, he confirmed it for me. He told me that the 'Taint' as he called it was well-documented, and then he admitted that the Order had been studying Jusenkyo and the curse for a long time."

His heart in his throat Ranma found questions falling from his lips before he had thought of them. "Years? How long?"

"Centuries, more likely millennia. He mentioned that the Order had been concerned with Jusenkyo, since before the 'Dark Time' but I'm not quite sure what he exactly meant by that or what time period it could represent. Only that it involved a huge war over the use of the springs."

"Why are they so interested? Why study the curse for so long? What do they want?" Ranma asked, the words pouring out of them.

"The same thing you do," Tofu answered, "but on a much grander scale. Remember, to Taoists, like the Order, nature is divine. The Tao is Law of Nature and it is flawless and absolute, and the most critical element of the Tao is the flow of ki and how it preserves balance against chaos and heat. To the Order, Jusenkyo is a terrible aberration; one could almost say a blasphemy as it leaves a mark on the natural flow of ki in the body, that's why they call it the Taint. However the problem is greater, as Jusenkyo is a product of magic, which to the Order is a perversion of nature. Spellcraft twists the Greater Cycle to some artificial purpose, which to Taoists is abhorrent. A permanent magical anomaly such as Jusenkyo is like an ink spill in the purest spring water, although the water is can still be drunk it is no longer pristine and clear. The Order has extensively studied the cursed hoping that they could find away to purge the taint from their ki flow."

"Purge the taint? You mean they can cure us?" Ryoga burst out. New tears welled in his eyes even as a wide, fanged grin spread over his face.

"I don't know, Ryoga, but Locke said that there was almost an entire wing of the great archive dedicated to Jusenkyo. If a cure is possible, and I am **not **saying that it is, they would know of it." Then the man sighed and shook his head. "Not that it matters anymore now; the Order have banished you from Emei. They are very protective of their secrets and their knowledge and I have heard rumours that when such lore is shared they often impose very demanding restrictions and a heavy price. However, to be blunt, you've made too much of a mess, boys, they would never share anything with you now." The doctor stared at his lap as he rubbed his moist palms on his robes. "Such a waste," Ranma heard him whisper.

"Damn you, Ranma, you've ruined my chance at a cure!"

Ranma muted the other boy's rage to a distant buzz as he knelt in front of Tofu, hands clutching at the doctors sleeve

"Surely there something we can do, Doc? Whatever they want from me I'll give them it, I'd even apologise to that blonde jerk."

"It's too late, Ranma. The Masters are the law on this mountain and they want you gone."

"Talk to them," Ranma pleaded. "This Locke, is your master right? Maybe he could tell you the secret. We'll hide out here and won't cause any trouble; they won't even know we're still on Emei. After all we can't leave until our injuries are better."

"I don't think so," Tofu said, but this time his denial seemed unsure, less adamant.

"Please Doctor Tofu," Ryoga said weakly. He approached the frowning chiropractor and kneeling Saotome with hurried but still obviously pained movements. His face told a different story. With his awed smile and moist, shimmering eyes he could have been hearing the voice of God. "I need this. I don't want to be Akane's pet. I want to be…"

Ranma felt his face twist into a snarl. _Yes, I know exactly what you want, pig-boy! _His knuckles turned white as he tensed his fist, the urge to strike the other boy swelled in his breast once again. However, he stayed his hand as the tight frown on Tofu's face began to loosen like a knot gradually coming undone. The knot fell apart as the doctor sighed.

"I'll try, boys. I can see how much this means to you both; but I can't make any guarantees. It's still very likely Master Locke will say no." The older man conceded, a smile slowly slipping on his lips until he was grinning warmly.

"I know, Doc, but so long as you try," Ranma said with a matching smile, his heart bouncing in his chest. _Never gonna be a girl again, never gonna be a girl again, _a choir sang in his head.

"Thank you," Ryoga gushed, wrapping Tofu in an embrace which made the man's face fill bright red and the veins on his brow swell like chords.

"Ryoga," Tofu gasped. "My back! Can't breath!"

Ranma clutched the lost boys shoulder and attempted to heave the melodramatic Hibiki from his friend. "Ryoga, the plan won't work if you kill the Doc."

Ryoga's arms snapped open and Tofu sagged away like a wilting plant, his arms cradling his sides as he let out a stream of weak coughs. Ryoga's own strength faded and he too slumped to the floor, scratching at the back of his head with an unsteady chuckle. "Sorry, I sometimes don't know my own strength."

Ranma rolled his eyes. _He knows his strength he's just too stupid to do something about it._

"Don't worry about it," Tofu croaked in a weak, straggled voice. "Maybe it's a sign I should do some more external training myself, hmm?" He coughed again. "Anyway, if we're to do this, it is important that you two do stay here in hiding whilst I talk to Master Locke. If you do leave don't go far and make sure you're not spotted as it could lead to more trouble. Brand and Blitz are proud men, they are certain to want a rematch.

"Besides, as you mentioned the two of you need to wait for your injuries to heal and your ki to balance. I have some tea whose herbs might help on the latter and for your pain. I also have something that might help those burns Ryoga."

Giving his side one last rub he pushed himself up and settled back onto the rocky outcropping he had been sitting on.

"First I need to get back to work and take a look at you, Ranma. Could you take your shirt off your shirt please?"

Ranma started. "Oh right," he acknowledged, quickly releasing the last few ties on his shirt. His jaw bunched around his clenched teeth as pain shot through his muscles as he gingerly eased the shirt from his shoulders. His bruises seemed larger, spread across his male body and without his breasts in the way he could see the yellowing edges clearly. He grimaced as he set shuffled around in front of the doctor, facing away as Ryoga had done.

"You going to feel my ki like you did Ryoga's?"

Tofu nodded. "I'm going to check your meridians for imbalances and signs of internal injuries."

"Hey, Doc? I think I have some paper and a pen or pencil in my pack. Do you think you could draw the meridians so I could study them?" Ranma asked, fighting a smirk trying to make his voice sound casual despite the excitement stirring in him. I mean, if I'm going to be cooped up in the cave I'll need something to keep busy." _I'll be busy, all right. If I'm right, this new trick will come in handy._

----------------------

* * *

"Amazon kempo," Shampoo answered, trying to peer over the edge of the policeman's clipboard.

His hand froze, pen still pressed on the page where an expanding spot of ink was blotting out the scribbled answers. He looked at her, his face blank and brows knit beneath the shining black visor of his cap. Shampoo blinked, wondering what she had said, and shuffling her feet. The sounds of the cars sliding down the street and the whispers of passing people, muttering with heads together as they stared, all seemed louder in the pause.

"Amazon?" the man said finally.

Shampoo nodded. "Yes, Amazon," she repeated wondering if she had misspoken. "What you say this for again?"

The cop blinked before stiffening, then brushed at the deep blue arm of his uniform jacket with his right hand, pinning his pen to the clipboard with the thumb of the other. "We're just taking a survey. They're been many reported incidents involving martial artists in this district." He paused, fiddling with his belt and making his handcuffs and truncheon rustle softly. "We felt that it would be…um…useful to have a list of local martial artists and their styles."

"Shampoo guess that make sense," she conceded and glanced down at the pantsuit of pink silk that she wore, with ties binding the shimmering fabric tight at her ankles and bracers of tough leather on her forearms. She had been hunting the perverted troll across the rooftops of Nerima and thus was not dressed in the attire of a typical Japanese girl; something that had become more deliberate over the last few days. It was no mystery why the officer had singled her out.

"We can do our job better when we're informed," he said with a smile, which swiftly dropped from his face as his eyebrow rose. "Now, when you say Amazon, do you mean as in the warrior women?"

"Is so," she said with a nod, before she felt her eyes narrow. "Why you sound so odd? You no think women can be warriors?" Her voice dropped to a hiss as she saw the man's gaze drop beneath her face for what seemed like the hundredth time.

"No, no!" he said, holding the flat of his clipboard up in a placating move. "My wife would kill me if I went about saying something like that," he said, offering another smile and a low chuckle.

_I doubt your wife has the heart to kill you, _Shampoo thought, her lips compressing to a tight line. _If she lets you go around staring at other girls' breasts when you should be working, I doubt she is much different from the rest of these outsider-women. _She then scolded herself mentally; it was not the women's fault, they were just now finding their strength. It was the men's.

Back home the men were too spineless too look, well except Mousse but that was a different problem. In Japan all the men looked, as if she was a picture in a gallery or magazine, something to be gawped at and leered, even more so because she was foreign. She had noticed that even Akane, the undeserving object of so many fantasies did not get the same kind of looks she got. Worst of all, the one man she wanted to look, the one she wanted to want her, went out of his way to avoid looking. The other elders were right; men were useless.

Then the image of Ranma's determined yet terrified face, seen through the bars of a cage amidst the ringing of the New Year's bell flashed in her mind with a barrage of other pictures. There was Ryoga's blush and fanged growl, and even a few of Mousse, though she wondered how they had got there, smirking behind glimmering blades; but most of all there was Ranma. Something heavy and black seemed to press down within her stomach as she recalled the elder's words again, and they seemed fainter for a moment, until she realised the policeman had spoken again.

"Sorry, could you repeat?" she asked, snapping from her thoughts.

The man frowned, probably doubting her language skills or her brains as most other Japanese did, but obliged. "I was wondering if I could get a few more details about this 'Amazon kempo.' Is it only hand to hand or do you use weapons?"

"Is much of both, many hand form and many weapon styles. Shampoo use Amazon Long Fist, and Sky Dragon styles. Can also use many weapon but best with bonbori and sword." Shampoo concentrated, extending her hand and letting her ki flow as Mousse had taught her, picturing unwrapping an apple from a napkin. The melon hammer appeared; her fingers curling around the carved haft before its huge weight could drop it through the pavement and hefting it for inspection.

The policeman's eyes grew, his pupils suddenly floating in a ring of white. The pen dropped from his fingers and Shampoo's hand flicked out to snatch it from the air. As she held it out, it took several moments for his eyes to dart from her mace to the pen, and then they flicked to her face, and back to the mace, mouth working all the time, like a landed fish. With a shake his pulled himself together and reclaimed the pen with trembling fingers.

"Thanks," he said his voice breathless. He cleared his throat and then spoke again, some strength returning to his voice. "Do you carry the sword with you too?"

"No," she said, _not all the time, _she added mentally but the officer's tone suggested that she should keep that silent. "Was gift from mother, Shampoo keep in room, is reminder of home."

That was apparently the best answer, as the policeman gave a small, sympathetic smile. His pen whispered on the paper as he scrawled down notes, and Shampoo tucked her bonbori away with a flex of will, the sensation like dropping something into a cloth sack. The writing stopped as the man stared at her hands, and then restarted with a much wilder pace, the nib scraping loudly on the page.

"You have more questions for Shampoo?" she asked, forcing her voice to stay sweet despite her thinning patience.

"No, thanks for your co-operation, Miss. If you could just tell me your address for our records you can be on your way."

"Shampoo live at Nekohanten, you know place yes?" Shampoo answered. She glanced at the cop from the corner of her eyes as his pen stopped halfway through the name of the café.

"Uh yeah," he said pushing his cap up with the end of his pen. "Wasn't that place closed by the health department? There was a foot poisoning incident."

"No!" Shampoo snapped. She took an angry step towards the man, fist already rising from her side before she stopped herself and forced it back down. "No," she repeated in a calmer voice, but her hand gripped the pocket of her silk pants tightly. "That all misunderstanding. Accident with suppliers." She plucked the lie from nowhere, waving her hand towards the officer whilst flashing him the same empty smile she used on high tipping, but stupid customers. "All be cleared up soon and we be open again. You come yes. Ramen is best in town."

"Sure," he said with a smile, sly eyes peering from beneath hooded lids.

_A wife indeed? _she thought dryly. _Maybe if I met her I could convince her to at least hit him a few times._

The cop covered his mouth with a fist as he loudly cleared his throat and returned his eyes to his notes. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask where you are currently living whilst your home is…indisposed."

Shampoo mumbled the name of the tiny hotel that she was cooped up in with her highly stressed Great-grandmother and irritating man-duck, the words coming out of her mouth fast as if she were throwing them at the nosey policeman. The man smiled again, eyes slipping from her face and making her stomach turn. He began to repeat his thanks for her co-operation but she was already storming away. She bounced off of the awning of a greengrocer and onto the flat roof, leaving the wide-eyed cop gawping after her.

Shampoo leapt from roof to roof, fleeing the cop and his clipboard like a pack of dogs, her lavender hair streaming behind her. Planting her foot on the lip of a short wall of a balcony, she vaulted herself high above an apartment complex before allowing herself to drop to the building below her. Metal rang beneath her feet as she landed on the conical roof of a water tower, the structure singing like a dull bell before she pushed herself off into a sideways flip. Landing on the tiles she walked to the edge of the roof, shielding her eyes with one hand as she scanned the skyline for the shrivelled figure of Happosai and his sack of stolen goods.

Her teeth clenched and ground upon each other as she read no sign of the pervert across the rooftops. At her side trembled the same fist which had clenched when facing the policeman, her knuckles white with desire to hit something.

Staring down at the street her eyes found the Nekohanten. Despite the early afternoon the restaurant seemed dark through the windows, the front tables' shadowed silhouettes, hardly comparable to the seat where she had observed couples gazing at each other over steaming bowls of ramen. A sign was posted on the inside of the glass and Shampoo had to squint to read the text.

CLOSED PENDING INVESTIGATION  
-MINISTRY OF HEALTH AND WELFARE

Shampoo's scowled deepened. With that sign their reputation was torn, perhaps irreparably. It would be hard to keep business after this debacle. She was surprised at the bittersweet taste that left in her mouth.

She wondered why she would be sad if the restaurant closed. How would it hurt her? Why her Great-grandmother had decided to open the place was a mystery to her, one that had tugged at her mind for her first few weeks in Japan, playing at her as she learn to dress up food, found shortcuts across the rooftops on her bike and discovered the smile that was most eagerly returned by her customers. Eventually the question was lost in the business itself, in the races through hot springs and suggestive mushrooms, dismissed as a ploy to get past immigration. However now her husband had vanished, there was little to distract her mind from its musings.

She was a warrior not a waitress, or so she told herself, avoiding the tiny voice that asked if that was still true. There had never been any doubt before had stepped onto the challenge log. Ranma had changed that, changed everything. It was not just the attacks by winged Minotaurs or the wooing by legendary ghost cats, it was the small everyday things that had been turned inside out and upside down.

In her village she had often helped to provide food for her people, but by joining in the hunt with her Warrior-sisters, stalking prey over harsh terrain. Her father had taught her how to cook, and she found it very relaxing, but it was private. A duty she shared with her family; one which respected and cemented the bond between herself, her father and her Great-Grandmother. Now the preparation of food was en masse, the ingredients fresh and the taste excellent, but her smile was fake, barley maski9ng a desire for tips she would have once found laughable.

Her position as an Amazon warrior, just come of age, was not a varied one. Like her sisters, her hours were given to three causes; her fist, her family and her people. That was the life she had been destined to when she was born into the warrior-caste. It was a hard life, steeped in honour and obligation, where a slip could ruin one's family, but it was all she had been ever wanted.

Now her life revolved around a ramen shop; often filled with schoolboys and salary men who spent more time with their eyes on her than the menu board, and a had man who lived with another girl yet still wanted her to cook for him, before leaving with her heart in his pocket like a key ring. A job and a husband. This was not the life of an Amazon.

_It's their life_, she sneered mentally, glaring at the people below her. _Outsiders._

She scanned along the street; the street that she had lived on for almost two years, but now somehow seemed foreign and unfamiliar, as if she were looking at a photograph of a street in a distant city. A blur of blue appeared in the periphery of her vision, making her head snap around to stare in the distance where the roads crossed. The blur resolved into a policeman's uniform, and as she squinted Shampoo could make out another of those damnable clipboards. He appeared to be interviewing two figures, women by their height, one with a weapon strapped to her back.

Curiosity tugging at her, Shampoo strode to the edge of the apartment building that she stood atop, and stepped off the roof. Kicking out against behind her, she dove forwards and gripped a phone line in her fist. Ignoring the numbing tingle of the electricity she yanked herself forwards, giving her the momentum to land on the slanted roof of a house with a loud thump. A gasp drew her attention to a matronly woman in the garden below, head covered with a kerchief, who paused in the act of hanging washing and stared up at Shampoo with wide eyes. The Amazon scowled and the woman quickly gathered her washing and hurried inside.

Shampoo loped across the roof to the front of the house and hopped onto the chain of fences that ran along the street. She followed the improvised walkway at a swift trot, speeding up to vault across the gaps that open up where streets and alleys bisected her path.

She kept her eyes on her quarry, now clearly seen to be two young girls. The tallest was of an age with her, dark brown hair bound with a stiff roll of bandages which lifted the locks up above her crown before letting in flow in a tail past her shoulders. Thick bangs were cut straight at harsh angles revealing intense eyes which were fixed on the questioning policeman. Her companion, sister Shampoo guessed seeing a ghost of resemblance in their features, was younger by three or four years. Her slightly lighter her was cut shorter, fanning over the base of her neck, but was tied with an unusually large scarlet ribbon. They were wore similar dress, much like the uniform of a schoolgirl, except that the tall one wore a navy-blue blazer buttoned primly across her stomach and barely covering her hips rather than the more typical white blouse and neckerchief worn by her sister. Both girls' skirts were divided down the middle as if for horse riding but eldest wore tight black leggings similar to those worn by the spatula girl, whereas the hems of a pair of blue spandex shorts peeked from beneath the younger girl's pleated, blue dress.

Shampoo chewed her lip thoughtfully as she slipped from the fence top on the other side. Those modifications were made for combat, she noted considering the slits cut into her own skirts, except those went up the outer sides past her hips. Her brow also furrowed as she considered the strange weapon born by the older sister, made of shaped rattan cane, it appeared to be a large rugbeater. Not the strangest weapon she had ever seen, especially since coming to Nerima, but still one to earn a frown.

She slipped closer, the words the eldest was exchanging with the cop becoming clearer with each step. Creeping through gardens and leapling over walls as if stalking a mountain lion through the forest, her soft slippers barely made a whisper as she stepped across grass lawns and concrete driveways. Finally, she dropped into a squat as she drew even with the strangers, crouching on her haunches with only the thin barrier of the fence between them.

"As I said before, Officer, we're just passing through to see some rela…friends." one of the girls said, her voice flat and her words spoken with prim precision and measured propriety.

"I understand, Miss, but I have my orders," a man said in a calm tone. "I appreciate your cooperation and I can understand how this may seem a little odd. All I need is a few more details."

"No problem," the other girl chirped excitedly as if her words burst out of her like a firework.

Her sister appeared to be more cautious. "What kind of details," she asked slowly, her tone larded with suspicion.

"Just a little more info on the style you practise. For example is that…uh…thing on your back a weapon?" The policeman paused for leaving the question hanging and Shampoo assumed that the girl had responded with a nod. "Do you use others?"

"I use a ribbon," piped the younger sister.

"A very pretty one too," replied the cop's voice warmly. Shampoo barely repressed a snort.

"Hush, Kurumi," the first girl said haughtily. "To answer your question, Officer, we have both done some moderate training in several weapons in the past but we do not use them much anymore. We only use the beater and ribbons that you see us carry, which is for defence and training only. We travel a lot and I'm sure you understand why two young women could use a little extra protection."

"Of course," the policeman replied sombrely. "Some places are becoming less safe, everyone needs to take care, women especially."

Shampoo's stomach turned. She knew she should not be surprised at his words but they still seemed like a slap. However, it was the casual way that the girl fostered his comment that made her bile churn like a rotten scallop. _To think I had thought her a warrior, _she thought bitterly. _These outsiders will never grow to be more if they encourage their males by wearing their bridle._

"Is your style based on hand to hand combat?" the officer spoke again after clearing his throat. "A form of karate or jiu-jitsu or perhaps kempo?"

"Our school uses whatever works," the older girl declared, her voice every ounce as regal as a queen proclaiming from her throne.

"We practise Anything-Goes martial arts," the other girl, Kurumi, peeped.

Shampoo's widened and a breathy gasp slipped out before she clasped her palms firmly over her mouth. She pressed herself tighter against the fence, laying her ear against the rough wooden planks. Her brow furrowed as she pursed her lips. _More students of Anything-Goes?_ That tickled something in her brain, something she thought she should know.

"Anything-Goes?" the man said, a touch breathily. "I've heard of your school. You're quite….famous around here. There is a dojo not far, will you be staying there?"

"Yep," the youngest answered happily.

"No, Kurumi," her sister snapped. "We will be visiting the Tendo dojo, Officer, but we have no plans on staying too long."

"But Natsume…" the girl's words became muffled and indistinct.

"No, we have to continue training. Even if we do not have the dojo we must be strong enough to be the heirs of the Anything-Goes School of Martial Arts."

"The heirs?" the cop spluttered. "You're the heirs?"

A ball of ice had formed in the pit of Shampoo's stomach and the cold seeped through her body, numbing her mind. Her thoughts were silent, unsure how to react or process the new information. She licked her lips and drew a slow breath, flexing her fingers and feel carved ridges pressing into her palm. Eyes widening, she quickly glanced down at her right hand to see her hand curled around the haft of her bonbori. Staring at the painted surface of the mace, Shampoo felt warmth flood her, purging the cold in her gut and making her lip curls into a small smile. Hefting the weapon she nodded to herself.

No matter how much these this upside-down country and the ways of the milk water outsiders softened her sense; or how falling in love with an amazing but exasperating idiot of a man had addled her wits. The core of her being still held a warrior's heart and it knew what should be done.

Shampoo had tried to be the partner her husband, a Japanese teenager, would expect and would want by their ways, to be a mere girlfriend. Where had that gotten her? Her pride cracked, her dignity in the gutters and her husband off where only her ancestors knew. Her Great-grandmother was right: that was Mousse's mistake and she would be damned if she would not learn what he had not. It was time to act as an Amazon wife should, and part of that was fighting the battles her groom could not. No sister of the Nichieju would let someone take what belonged to her consort. Shampoo would fail them by letting these chits steal her husband's place.

Her aunt had often told the tale of Wen Mei, who had hunted and challenged a band of the legendary Wudan swordsmen for taking her husbands basket of vegetables. The records say that she had scattered their leader's body across a field, each limb driven into the soil like planted turnips.

The annals recorded that Wen Mei had rose to great honour within her people, becoming the Prime, the Matriarch's chosen second. Her words were well known amongst the Scroll of Voices. _The path of an Amazon warrior lies in the heart not the head, for it alone know which step will lead to glory._

Letting this wisdom sink in slowly, Shampoo waited for the policeman to finish his interview, like a hawk on its perch, waiting for the mouse to leave its hole. It was not long, a few minutes of short, meaningless questions about the girl's travels and plans, and their replies which were all variations and rewording of 'We don't know'. As she pushed down the desire to tear down the fence in front of her and charge the usurpers, those minutes seemed to stretch into hours. As she heard the cop thank the sisters and say his goodbye, Shampoo dismissed her bonbori, feeling a twinge of reluctance at losing its soothing weight.

She held herself back as the girls' voices, mostly the chatter of the younger sister, began to dim. Then feeling butterflies drum her guts with anticipation she leapt over the fence to the road and began to follow. She did not prowl along their trail like a leopard on the gazelle's heel but stalked behind them blatantly, a lioness presenting herself to the herd before it spooked.

Eventually her prey did, the older one gripping her sisters shoulder firmly, pulling her to a halt before whirling around.

"Why do you follow us?" she asked, politely but firmly, just short of a demand.

"Maybe she's lost?" Kurumi suggested, with wide eyes and a small smile.

"She's not lost, Kurumi," Natsume said, her eyes narrowing. "Concentrate, Kurumi, can't you feel it?"

The younger girl's face scrunched up and she squinted towards Shampoo, as if she expected her to suddenly change shape. Finally she shrugged and shook her head.

Shampoo noticed this but locked eyes with the taller girl. "So Phoney-girl recognise challenge, have some skill after all. Shampoo glad to hear it. Would have big guts to claim lie if not."

"Phoney-girl?" Natsume repeated slowly, flicking her tail of brown hair back over her shoulder. "Who are you and what do you mean by _lie_?" Her lips twisted around the word as if it were something foul.

"Name is Shampoo, I warrior of Joketsuzoku. And lie mean you claim what not true. What else lie mean?"

The younger one seemed to sense the tension that charged the air with a silent hum. The cheer dropped from her face, replaced with a hesitant frown that wavered as if it did not belong. She stepped sideways, closer to her sister. "What do you want from us?" she asked. "We haven't done anything to you?"

"Insult to Shampoo Airen is insult to Shampoo."

"I don't know what you are talking about," Natsume pronounced stuffily, pulling sharply at the hem of her blazer. "And you're clearly quite mad, so we'll go."

"No!" Shampoo growled. Her bonbori appeared in her hands and she pointed it towards the older sister with a fierce stabbing motion. "You spit on husband's honour you not spit on Amazon's." Too often she had let the people of this town, this country dismiss her people and her ways. If they did not deride them outright as the brainless customs of an ignorant, backwater tribe.

However one of those customs was that grievances must be aired before a warrior can claim combat. Swallowing a deep breath Shampoo forced her voice to be calm. "You claim be heirs of Anything Goes School, yes? Shampoo's Airen, Ranma, is only _true_ heir of pervert man's school. That make you liars and f...fraud," Shampoo paused a moment to silently curse herself for tripping over the rarely used word. She adjusted for the slip by injecting more venom into her words. "In China is big, big crime to take person's name or take claim person's place. Is big insult to true person and family. Is also big shame to let go unpunished."

"So you have come to punish us, is that it?" Natsume concluded flatly, her fine eyebrow arching. Her eyes flicked towards Shampoo's hands. "Those melon hammers suggest you're taking this very seriously."

Kurumi shuffled, inching closer to her sister but she stood on the balls of her feet. She lifted one hand behind her, fingering the lose ties of her giant red ribbon.

Shampoo nodded. "Is so. Ranma not here to defend honour or defend place, but husband honour is wife honour. I make challenge instead, by right of heart bond." The last words called to ritual that meant nothing to those not of the Nichieju, or its enemies, but it felt good to hear herself utter them. The words steeled her as she adjusted her grip on her maces.

"Wait," Kurumi said suddenly, her big eyes blinking rapidly. "Ranma? You don't mean Ranma Saotome?"

"Yes," Shampoo confirmed, before her eyes narrowed. "You know Ranma?" she asked suspiciously. Her beloved did seem to meet far too many women for her liking, and few of them were what she would call unattractive.

"We do," Natsume replied in a measured tone, which was completely dashed by her sister's following out burst.

"But he's Akane's fiancé! Why do you call him husband?"

"Ranma is Shampoo's husband," she snarled. She could feel the muscles of her jaw bunch until they ached as she ground her teeth. While she had learnt to live with the Tendo claim, which in itself galled her, but she despised being slapped in the face with it. "Akane is small...obstacle. Be dealt with in time."

"What do you mean by 'dealt with?'" Natsume asked; a sliver of steel beneath her prim voice.

"None you business," Shampoo snapped instantly. _I wish I knew_, a small but bitter voice whispered in her mind. She stuffed it down with her rising temper.

"Akane is our friend," the young one piped hotly. There was some fire beginning to show there after all.

Shampoo waved away the comment with a flick of her wrist as if batting it aside with her bonbori. "Shampoo think you should more be concerned about own selfs." She fixed the older girl with a sharp glare and came to the heart of the matter. "I accuse you of great crime. Do you wish to challenge or accept punishment."

"Punishment?" Kurumi repeated quietly. Natsume lip twitched and Shampoo thought she could see the girl's fist trembling around the death grip she had taken on her skirt.

"Reasonable punishment," the Amazon replied, allowing her lips to form a smirk. "Strip naked and Shampoo switch with bamboo cane. Furinkan high school not far, that be good place."

The pleated fabric fell from Natsume's hand as it opened convulsively. Kurumi gasped loudly, pressing both hands over her mouth. Their eyes of both seemed huge as they openly goggled. Blood suffused Natsume's face, turning her skin scarlet. Her mouth worked but no sound came out beyond a barely audible croak.

"Well?" Shampoo asked, repressing a snicker.

"Switched?" Kurumi squeaked breathlessly.

"In public no less!" her sister shrieked. Her body quivered and her face twisted with seemingly enormous desire to rein herself in. The hands that had taken a death grip on her pleated skirt relaxed one finger at a time before smoothing out the fabric. She then pulled at the bottom of her blazer and brushed imagined dust from her chest. When she lifted her face again her expression was flawless, like a statue carved of ice. She laid a hand on the younger girl's shoulder, who returned a small smile before scowling at Shampoo.

"I have no intention on letting anyone harm myself or my sister," Natsume stated in tones of iron. Not for you or your imagined crimes. We have done nothing wrong, so I have no choice but, as you say, to challenge your accusation."

Shampoo nodded, hand tightening on the haft on her bonbori. "Shampoo thought might. You not seem weak, coward, but no can be sure with liar-girls."

"We're not liars," Kurumi snapped with hard stamp of her foot.

"That for you to prove now."

Shampoo warily took her eyes from the sister, scanning the familiar streets. Her eyes rested on a large square building, one she must have seen a thousand times yet never really noticed until now. Perhaps because it was so plain and ordinary, just another apartment complex, each window set in its own niche in the white walls like arrow slots in a palisade. Colourful garments hung from short wires stretched across these tiny balconies, flapping in the wind.

"Up there," Shampoo said, pointing towards the buildings roof. She could not see any water towers, vents or other obstacles; a flat square of space shielded by a shallow wall. A perfect arena.

"You follow, yes?" she threw over her shoulder towards the pair as she loped down the street.

When she was sure that the sound of footsteps on her heels was her opponents' she leapt onto the fence and then as she came to the building, pushed herself into a mighty jump. A woman walking past her window gaped, her coffee cup falling from her fingers before screaming as Shampoo approached. She kicked out before she could crash onto the balcony, her foot catching its steel fence and vaulted herself up the remaining floor until she touched down on the roof.

Kurumi followed in her path, earning another scream from one of the apartment's as she used a balcony as a stepping stone. Her balance wavered as she landed upon the shallow wall on the roof's lip, but she caught herself easily and stepped forward. Shampoo grimaced as the older sister managed to leap the three stories in a single bound.

"You sure you not change mind?" Shampoo asked as she strode to the centre of the rooftop, scraping a foot over the black tarmac to test her footing. From the corner of her eyes she noticed a slightly raised platform, embedded with a steel trapdoor. That could prove a problem.

Natsume had doffed her blue blazer, revealing a loose white blouse, buttoned to the top and drew her rugbeater. "Not if you still mean to have us switched naked in a high school. Besides, the tenets of Anything Goes do not allow us to refuse a challenge."

"Shampoo see you no quit lie. For sake of husband, Shampoo no quit. We fight."

The tall girl nodded stiffly, her face still blank and cold. Her sister stepped forward one hand pulling a long length of scarlet silk from her bow, but Natsume cut her off with an out flung hand in her path.

"But Natsume, we fight together. One mind and one body," the young girl protested.

Natsume spared a smile for her sister that did not touch her eyes, eyes which never left Shampoo. "Remember what we decided last time, Kurumi. It can no longer work that way. We must become strong in our own rights. Only then will we be worthy heirs."

"I fight one, or both. No matter to Shampoo," the Amazon shrugged. "Both lie so both must be punished."

"I'll take the challenge for the both of us," the older girl replied firmly. "My sister can act as witness."

Shampoo nodded but said nothing. There was nothing more to be said. Her fingers shifted on the carved grip of her bonbori as Natsume took a place opposite her, spinning her beater in her hands. Kurumi stood between the pair but far enough to Shampoo's left that she would not be caught in their collision when the battle was joined.

"Um," the girl mumbled, shuffling her feet.

"Don't worry about us, Kurumi," her sister said testily, before smoothing her tone. "You know what to do."

Kurumi chewed at her bottom lip but raised a trembling hand into the air.

"Begin," she cried, bringing her arm down in a slash.

Shampoo needed no more invitation and immediately charged at her opponent. This was her right. This was her place, her calling. This was who she was. All she needed was to remember it.

She opened strong, hefting her right mace high and bringing it crashing down like a like a thunderbolt, lunging forwards with her left knee bent and putting all her mass into the blow.

Natsume dodged with a single, large step, sliding forwards at an angle so that Shampoo's mace slashed through empty air and crashed into the rooftop, spraying up chunks of tarmac.

Shampoo heard the air begin to sing and dropped to one knee, ducking her head as the song crested into a wail. The air above her was torn asunder as Natsume's beater cleaved through the space her torso had been with a violent backhand slash. Glancing up she saw tiny strands of lavender dancing and spinning in the air. Tucking her bonbori in close, Shampoo rolled over her shoulder as her opponent completed her spin.

As the gathered herself on her feet, she quickly spun to find her foe. The mask of ice had cracked on the other girl's face as she roared and swept her weapon through the empty air.

Shampoo was not sure why but her senses screamed at her to block. She brought her maces up before her chest in a cross and something, nothing slammed into the metal spheres with enough force to make the steel ring like a bell. Harsh vibrations trembled through the haft and into her hands, making her grimace and flakes of bright paint fell from the heads.

_Ancestors! _she gasped mentally. The air around her grew cold in the wake of Natsume's attack, sending a shiver through her. She pursed her lips, realising this woman was far more formidable than she had expected.

_It doesn't matter_, Shampoo told herself, gritting her teeth. _She claims your husbands place. She insults the mate of an Amazon woman, this is your duty. _

"Amazon not give up," she whispered to herself and threw herself into another rush. Stretching her arms wide, she swept her bonbori inwards, dashing into a running version of the movement Two World's Collide towards the tall girls legs.

Natsume stepped back nimbly, almost flowing from the hammers' paths, beater raised defensively.

Shampoo twisted her wrists so the steel spheres would not crash into each other, cocking one mace over her left shoulder and the other under her right armpit. Lunging up with a yell, she thrust her weapons forwards, the cross hafts streaking for Natsume's chin before swinging the hammer heads outwards.

The haft of the rugbeater rose softly, almost floating up against Shampoo's elbows but with enough force to nudge her attack from its target as its owner slipped down. Natsume's fell onto her back, dropping quickly but seeming to land like a feather on the hard roof.

A hard gasp followed by a weak splutter slipped from Shampoo's lips as she folded around the kick that had thrust up into her gut. Holding her breath to keep what little air remained in her lungs, she struck down with a bonbori but her opponents other foot lashed around in a circle, catching the edge of her hand where the haft protruded and flinging it from her grasp. The heavy weapon spun through the air before landing with a hard '_thunk'_ on the rooftop.

Shampoo grimaced, taking a deep breath to feel her chest and snapped her now free, left hand down, then seized Natsume's kicking leg, still pressed against her stomach, in a vice like grip which made the other girls wince. Summoning as much strength as she could into that one arm, she stepped back on one leg and threw herself into a hard twist throwing her opponent by the ankle like an Olympic hammer.

Natsume hit the ground and bounced once before sliding to a stop, miraculously keeping hold of her weapon. She did not tarry long though, gathering herself up quickly but with jarred, pained movements. Her face was screwed into a tight grimace and her divided skirts had ridden up to her pale thighs revealing fresh scrapes on her knees and legs.

Shampoo waited for her opponent to bring herself up, barely holding her mace in check as she eased it in her grip. She had made a True-challenge for the right of redress. She could not smash the defendant like a bug. However, as soon as the soles of Natsume's shoes pressed flat on the tarmac, Shampoo swung her arm forwards with a cry and launched her mace.

The bonbori darted head-first towards the older girl like a comet, and Shampoo bolted forwards in its trail. She ducked low as she ran, hands spread behind her. Her fingers flexed with a staccato crack finding the looseness and agility needed for an assault on her opponent's meridians.

_Flowing springs set. _Shampoo thought with a hint of a smirk after dismissing the knockout point on the base of skull in favour for a string of points along the bladder channel. Sudden, overwhelming incontinence would end the fight just as well but it would add the extra touch of humiliation. Very suitable for a usurper.

A high wail rose as Natsume sliced the wicker blade of her rugbeater through the air before her, and Shampoo found herself blocking her own weapon as it reeled back towards her. She thrust forwards both hands, bracing herself against the hard impact. Her palms stuck as the head of her bonbori collided against them, the shock lancing painfully through the bones of her hand and arm. Unable to stop her rush, Shampoo was forced to twist from the path of the hammer and wrench it aside, sending it clattering and leaving her to defend herself with her bare hands as Natsume attacked.

Before she could recover her guard a high roundhouse kick struck her shoulder. The blow did not hurt but made her stumble to her left side as her opponent swung her beater towards that flank. Shampoo shifted her body away to her right, sinking onto her back leg and dropped her forearm to block the attack. She hissed loudly. Her flesh felt as if lashed by a flail, despite her bracers, but also cold like a winter wind.

Shampoo pushed herself forwards and became the crane; she stood on one leg, the three stiffened fingers of her hand striking towards the cluster of nerves beneath the curve of Natsume's jaw like a beak plucking a berry from a tree.

Natsume rotated her wrist, a tiny effortless motion but it brought the beater around in an arc, knocking aside Shampoo's hand. However, the Amazon snatched the thin wooden haft and pulled it back with enough force to make the brown-haired girl stagger as she clung to the weapon.

The crane became a precious duck, speeding its way through lotus flowers. She thrust her body forward, raised leg stamping back to the floor. She dropped her hips into a squat, squared stance as her fist slammed into her opponent's chest. Her knuckles stuck the girl between her breasts and sent her reeling back head over heels, a cry following her fall.

For a moment the girl lay flat on her face, beater arms length away.

"Natsume," her sister stepping into a run but then stumbling to a stop as the older girl pushed herself onto hands and knees.

Natsume coughed, spitting a long string of saliva onto the roof. Then, as if that was all that bothered her, she reached out, took hold of her weapon and stepped back onto her feet. Her lips were drawn back into a wince and she rubbed at her sore chest with her hand but her blue eyes were still cold steel. She released her chest to grip the rugbeater in both hands, holding it tilted before her at chest level like a katana.

Shampoo approached slowly this time, a prowling lion on the plains. She extended her left foot, pressing down with the toes of her slippers before smoothly sliding her right foot to her left heel. Her body flowed forwards but her guard was solid, the edge of her hands extended like blades.

Natsume came to meet her, moving much more rapidly with fast but simple strides. The beater began to spin in her hands, tracing smooth figures of eight in the air. Then, with out any pause in the torrent, she stepped forwards and swatted at Shampoo's face with the wooden edge.

Shampoo was a woodsman; her hands, pressed together above her head, were her axe and she swept it down against the attacking weapon as she would have timber. The beater was struck down past her hips and she became the crane once again, spreading her wings.

The forearms aimed at her jaw only skimmed Natsume's brown hair as she ducked. One hand left the beater to come over in an arch and pound a backfist into the Amazon's floating ribs.

Shampoo grunted; a rush of expelled air catching in her throat as her lungs caved in her chest. Taking a quick step back and cocking her fist, she was surprised to find the edge of the rugbeater pressed along her diaphragm and her body sent sliding back by a hard shove which left her badly winded.

She found that there was still some air in her lungs as Natsume slid into an explosive side kick and it was forced out in a ragged gasp that brought frothy spit spilling onto her chin. Her mouth worked, opening and closing like a landed fish, as she tried and failed to suck in much need oxygen. However a familiar banshee song pierced her ears and she threw up her hands, forearms crossed at the wrists.

The air attacked her, solidifying and whipping her with a stinging slash. Her silk blouse tore, her sleeves hanging in shreds around her elbows as her forearms took the brunt of the blast. Strips peeled away from her shoulders and flew away in shimmering spirals.

She had not noticed that she had squeezed her eyes shut until she opened them. She relaxed her arms pulling them down from her, but still kept them guarding her chest level. A thick stripe of angry red stretched across both arms where the wild wind had missed her bracers, a single but broken line as if she had been struck with a wide leather strap. Her left hand had been forward of the other and a bead of blood slid towards her elbow.

_She's dangerous with that thing, _she warned herself, narrowing her eyes at her opponent's rattan weapon. A small part of her trembled, telling her that this was a fight she should not have started. She crushed it, peeling her lips back in a snarl. She was an Amazon, to her people there was no such thing as a fight she should join or an opponent she should not rise to. This fight was her right. She would win. Victory was in her veins; all she had to do was disarm her foe.

She abandoned Long Fist and slipped into the combat stance of the Sky Dragon Fist. Weight sunk on her back leg, her front foot poised with her toes barely touching the rooftop and her heel turned outwards. She presented only her side to her opponent, one arms extended hand open with the other cocked across her breasts.

"You play with wind like sissy or come at Shampoo, Liar Girl?" she taunted. The style was more suited at receiving charges than giving them, but after watching her husband she had figured out how to incite someone to rush at them.

Natsume sniffed. "We are the heirs of the Anything-Goes school," she said flatly, ignoring Shampoo's glare. "I am not going to fall for one of our school's most basic ploys."

Natsume came at her but once again at no more than a fast walk, her beater held at a downwards angle in both hands, its tip scoring the tarmac behind her.

_If that's what she wants, _Shampoo thought, lunging forwards and throwing herself into a handspring. Her feet had barely touched the floor again before she was leaping over Natsume's head. She tumbled end over end as she passed over her foe, her feet towards the sky and her launching an uppercut that scored the girl's tall tail of hair as she ducked.

Natsume reacted fast, turning quickly and slashing backhand as she spun.

Right way up once again, Shampoo kicked her legs apart in a midair split so that the swipe that would have cut her from the sky whistled beneath her. Tipping forwards, she landed on her palms and sprung herself back up, her opponent barely dodging back as both of the Amazon's feet shot up like a mortar shell.

Flipping back Shampoo pushed both hands out, redirecting an angry swat of Natsume's beater. As she landed lightly on the ball of her right foot she thrust her left into the girl's midriff. Shampoo kept up the pressure, kicking her left leg up high into her opponents chin, and letting her momentum carry her up and over into a backward somersault.

Natsume's head flew back and her body staggered in jagged steps to keep on her feet.

Shampoo heard a gasp come from the Kurumi, and from the corner of her eyes she watched small girl shuffle on the spot as her desire to help her sister fought with her duty not to interfere.

The distraction cost her, Natsume recovering well and throwing herself into a rapid flurry of slashed, the wooden blade cleaving the air. Shampoo slid back as the girl chased her, fending the weapon off with her bracers, wincing as the stinging rattan sank through the leather.

She grunted as the beater's tip stabbed into her gut. The wood flexed, stealing power from the blow but the impact still stunned the purple-haired girl and her guard lapsed, allowing Natsume to lean over the weapon and slam a heavy punch into her jaw.

Flashing lights consumed her vision and the world seemed to spin as she stumbled backwards. Her leg bucked and she thudded to one knee, but she barely noticed the sharp pain through the ringing inside her skull. She shook the stars from her head and blinked away the blurs that swam through her eyes, forcing herself to her feet, ready to fight.

Shampoo pushed forwards, hoping her opponent would not notice how unsteady her legs were. She tried to become the charging leopard, streaking forwards and striking towards the taller girl's face with her fore-knuckles, her fist like a paw. However her mind danced and the form wavered, Natsume easily slipping aside and whipping the lower haft of her weapon into her ribs like a cosh.

Shampoo coughed but managed to leap to the side, robbing the next blow of its power as Natsume extended her arm straight, forming a backhanded swipe. The flat of the beater bounced off of her side but she paid it no mind, leaping to summon the Sky Dragon once again.

She whipped her left leg in an outwards arc towards Natsume's head, but was blocked by the curled rattan face of the rug beater. Grimacing with effort she wrenched her body into a twist, turning her hips over and launching a roundhouse kick _downwards_. Her foot crashed into the cords of muscle between the girl's neck and shoulder.

Both legs up high, Shampoo landed hard on her side, but her opponent toppled like a felled tree. The two girls glared at each other as they lay on the rooftop, daggers and blades exchanged unseen in the charged air. Shampoo returned Natsume's stare with equal thunder and then added more, which was returned with interest. They picked themselves up simultaneously, never breaking the invisible battle. Natsume had a hand pressed at her neck, whilst Shampoo nursed the elbow that had jarred against the roof as she had landed.

They stepped forwards as one, each coming into range, ready to attack. Natsume swung her rugbeater down like a giant fly swatter, looking to smash Shampoo to the ground.

Shampoo stepped into the attack, thrusting up both forearms to take the blow on her leather braces. Wind whipped around her body as if a small hurricane had been dropped on her. Her hair flailed around her head, clawing at her face and eyes like a lavender veil. Despite this she threw a punch at her opponent's heart.

The blow struck clean, forcing Natsume to take a stunted step back, a muffled grunt escaping her lips.

Pushing at the rooftop with her legs, Shampoo sprung up into a backwards somersault, using her momentum to lash first her right foot then her left into the taller girl's chin as she flipped over.

Natsume's head flew backward, a thin trail of blood and saliva streaming into the air and she bit her lips. The force of the blow knocked her from her feet but she managed to find them again, retaining her balance by stumbling backwards with fast, unsteady steps. One hand clamped over her lower face with her beater held limp in the other, she glared arrows of fire over her fingers.

As soon as her feet touched the roof again Shampoo lunged forwards as the cobra. She spat forwards two stiffened fingers like a forked tongue, jabbing hard into the crease of Natsume's elbow. Her finger tips sank deep into the kyusho cavities either side of the thick tendon, and the other girl's hand snapped open. The rugbeater clattered on the ground and Shampoo moved in for the kill, the cobra uncoiling into an elephant. She swung a hollow fist like a great trunk into Natsume's gut.

The other girl's stomach seemed firmer this time, Shampoo's fist bouncing off Natsume's tensed abdominal muscles. Her blow only pulled a small hiss of expelled air from between her opponent's teeth even as two hands gripped her wrist and wrenched it aside. Her head jerked forwards, as Natsume pulled her arm across her torso, and was met by a violent palm heel strike that almost unhinged her jaw.

Her vision went black but for sparks of lightning flashing in her head as it seemed to whirl and heave. As she blinked away the streaming lights she became aware that her captured limb was being tied up. The arm was folded back until her fingers brushed the back of her shoulder, Natsume's arm wrapped through the loop and supporting the hand that was clasped over Shampoo's knuckles. Her wrist was bent inwards in a harsh swan neck shape, the pain making her knees buckle and allowing Natsume to take her down with an effortless push.

The other girl followed her down, holding the lock in place. Shampoo knew she needed to get out, trying to string together senses still disjointed by the last blow. As soon as her shoulders bumped against the rooftop, before the wrist hold could fully sink in, she kicked her far leg up. Her foot struck a glancing blow, bouncing off Natsume's shoulder and side of her head, but it was enough to make her grip weaken allowing the Amazon to pull her arm free and roll to the side.

As she came to her feet, Shampoo saw her opponent lunge for her fallen weapon and rushed to intercept. The sky dragon rolled over the earth as she jumped onto her left hand and sprung forwards, foot descending in a viscous arc. Natsume danced back and Shampoo's heel cratered the rooftop beneath, grinding the tarmac down as she spun to kick the rugbeater and sending it skittering out of the other girl's reach.

Shampoo dropped her weight onto one leg, bending it to a right angle with her front leg stretched before her. The snake crept down the vine allowing Natsume's wild roundhouse kick to pass through open air above her head, the folds of her divided skirt stirring Shampoo's lavender tresses. She then pushed forwards, the snake growing into a dragon that played with two pearls as she slammed both fists into her opponent, one against her sternum and the other the abdomen.

Natsume staggered back, but swiftly recovered into a new stance. She held her left side forwards, arm bent with her forearm guarding her stomach whilst her open right hand was at held palm out near her brow.

Shampoo kicked low, a rattlesnake shaking its tail, but her opponent slipped back with a large, sweeping step. She pursued quickly, becoming a swallow banking in the sky, her right hand swooped upwards with the inner edge aimed beneath Natsume's jaw line.

Her wrist touched Natsume's as the other girl fended the blow and seized her forearm, the contact was soft but unyielding, like a mother holding the hand of a wayward child. The taller girl stepped forward and twisted, allowing Shampoo's attack to continue its arc, but under her control. The Amazon's own momentum pulled her forwards into the spin like a leaf on the edge of a whirlpool, a gentle hand on the back of her head trapping her. Natsume glided in, reversing the vortex as she released Shampoo's arm and swept her arm up, bicep lodging under Shampoo's chin. The sudden reversal of forces overwhelmed Shampoo, lifting her from her feet and spitting her from the spiral.

She flew over the rooftop before landing face first, skinning the flesh from her palms and bouncing her head off the tarmac. The ground seemed to spin beneath her as she pushed herself up, hard coughs spluttering from her mouths and sending jolts of pain through her ribs.

"Liar girl sneaky," she growled when she managed to get her voice under control.

Natsume said nothing, simply stared from behind a mask of ice as she assumed her peculiar stance. And waited.

Shampoo glared at the other girl as she pushed herself to her feet. _She's sneaky but not strong, _she thought. _I am strong, strong enough to smother her._ She smiled as she made a show of brushing the dust from her silk trousers. _I can just run her down like a dog_.

With two great steps she was soaring into the sky again, body pulled back like a bow as she shot towards her opponent like an arrow. Her foot streaked at Natsume's head, forming the fang of the sky dragon. The air split around her, rushing past on either side with the sound of fluttering silk and screaming winds filling her ears. The dragon was the bringer of storms and rain, its fangs summoned bolts of lightning, it pierced all.

Just as her foot was about to stab through the tall girl's head, Natsume moved _forwards. _She did not step or jump but seemed to glide past as if she walked on the winds. The step was enough to make Shampoo foot miss its target, instead skimming across Natsume's blazer and she slipped forwards, the two women passing like trains on different tracks.

Natsume floated upwards, scooping Shampoo's calf on her forearm. The touch was soft, a gentle nudge but Shampoo's leg shot upwards, her foot pointing at the sky and still arching further, dragging the rest of her body into a wild spin. She flipped and twisted in the air like a bird with a broken wing, the disturbed winds cleaved by her flight now buffeting her as she dropped to the ground, head bashing against the rooftop before her body fell brokenly after her.

The world became fluid and insubstantial, fading and blurring like ripples on a pond. The ground beneath her rolled and heaved like waves, tossing her mind about like dinghy on stormy seas. The light in this world grew and dimmed and sometimes vanished into blackness. She felt a bump that made everything tremble, and some vague part of her said that she had tied to stand but the ground had turned to water beneath her feet. A voice spoke to her, seeming no more than a distant echo spoken through an endless tunnel.

"I take it this mean that I am innocent of whatever you accused me of?" it said, pausing before speaking again, this time the words seemed as shouted into Shampoo brain. "We are the heirs of…." the voice vanished as lights flashed in her head.

She could see a hand stretched out in front of her, she believed it was her own but it was long and bendy like rubber.

"No…" she said, her voice sounding small and weak. "No, Shampoo must kiss…."

Darkness rolled in.

The wail of sirens brought her back to reality with a spinning head and a rolling stomach. Scalding bile surged into her throat but thankfully dropped down back leaving her neck burning. The ground beneath her had become solid one more and she managed to push herself upright to a sitting position, rewarded by another toss of her stomach.

Her opponent and her sister was gone, leaving her on the rooftop, now empty but for her dropped bonbori and spattered with scratch marks, dents and crumbled tarmac. A cold feeling filled Shampoo's heart and seeped into her bones. She had lost. Xian Pu, Champion of the Young Warriors, fourth in a line of proud Amazon battle leaders had been defeated by an outsider. Again.

As the sirens grew louder, Shampoo slowly began to string together the sound with the growing numbers of police in town and her place on the roof of an occupied apartment complex, used as a battleground for martial artists. It was time to pull out.

Her body ached and screamed as she stood and moved to the closest of her discarded maces with tottering steps. The effort of tucking the hammer into nothing almost made her faint, but she managed to stagger to the other mace. Now it was simply a matter of cold water. She doubted those idiots would arrest a fluffy pink cat even if they knew of the curse.

Then she would demand the training her Great-Grandmother had promised. Her husband would not be cowed by defeat, and Shampoo would have the spirits turn their backs on her before she let a man show more heart than her.

---------------------------------

Natsume sagged against the wall as soon as she saw her sister turn out of the mouth of the alley. Her chest felt as if she had been struck by a cannonball, she wanted to pat herself to check that her ribcage was not dented.

_Boy, could that girl hit hard. _

Ever since she and her sister had first began travelling the country to improve the skills that had initially been planted by their false-father, she had known that fighting challenges and testing herself was a vital part of their path. Still, being stalked by a violent foreigner with strange hair and bizarre customs was not something she had included into that plan.

Remembering the girl's accusations left a bitter taste in Natsume's mouth and an uneasy feeling in her stomach, but she stamped the sensations down.

Last time she had visited Nerima, both sisters had accepted their defeat with a grace Natsume was proud of, especially in her flighty sister, and had relinquished any claim to the Tendo dojo. They had never any true right to the training hall to start with; Soun Tendo was not their father, and so the building would go to Akane as was proper. Though she could not bear to share the burden with Kurumi, she had abandoned the thought of ever finding their true sire. They were orphans and she must come to accept it.

However she could not give up their travels or their training, even if there was no perfect hero to welcome them back into his family, she would not let all they had spent their lives on be wasted. The man who had planted the love of the martial arts into two lonely girls was Happosai, Grandmaster of the Musabetsu Kakuto Ryu. As unpleasant as the gnarled little figure had seemed, he had still told them that they could carry on the Anything Goes School if they became true martial artists.

Though the memory of the mighty, benevolent father had all been a lie; that fact was still true and it was worth fighting for, though she did not relish the thought. She did not fear Akane, the girl's skills might be equal or perhaps past her sister's, but the true Tendo daughter was still levels beneath her own.

However, she liked the younger girl despite the discomfort of their early meeting and the bitter results of their first battle. Despite her uncontrolled temper and an attitude that sometimes seemed childish to Natsume, Akane Tendo was a very kind and likable person with a heart of gold. She had shared her food with two weary travellers (one of whom was more of a bottomless food pit than a demure girl) and welcomed them into her home. Even after the mix up over their parentage and the fight for the dojo, Akane had swiftly forgiven them and they had parted as friends if not sisters. A future duel with Akane often seemed an inevitable part of her quest to be the true heir, but Natsume hoped it would not come for a long time.

But this wild girl, Chinese by her accent and the patterns of her fighting style, had not challenged her on behalf of Akane Tendo, but for the claim of Ranma Saotome.

Natsume had only the barest of recollection of the pigtailed boy, who was also sometimes a scarlet haired girl, something that still sent shivers down her spine. They had not spoken much during the time she and her sister had stayed at the Tendo home, but he was always friendly if a rough around the edges when they had crossed paths. He also appeared to bear very strong feelings for Akane, if not the moonstruck romantic love the girl would clearly have preferred, whatever she said. However, Nastume was certain that the boy was exceptionally skilled, after all he had single-handedly nullified the attack that she and her sister and spend years of sweat-soaked, agonising training perfecting.

Though she was confident of victory over Akane, Ranma was a complication. She knew herself and the wide array of skills she had to draw on, both in single combat and paired with her sister, her other half. However, she had seen little of his abilities, but a feeling in her gut told her that was the tip of the iceberg, imposing yet nothing compared to what still lay hidden. She was also sure that Ranma himself was still not aware of all that was to be found beneath the waves. This Shampoo, who had named herself his wife, complicated things even further.

Thinking about the purple-haired attacker brought Natsume back to the crushing pain in her chest. Though she had never been on the receiving end of a blow, she had been aware of Akane's extraordinary strength but this girl was even stronger, faster and more skilled. Natsume had not doubted that she could defeat the girl, although she had to admit that the sudden barrage of flips and airborne kicks took her by surprise. From her first attack, a violent hammer blow with her mace, to her last, a flying kick with so fierce the air itself seemed to flee from its path; Shampoo's fighting method had seemed based on pure force. Attack without thought of defence was rarely a sound strategy and ultimately led to her victory, though she had moved too close in her final defence. Shampoo had made herself into a hurled spear; her foot a piercing point that tore Natsume's blazer open and sliced the blouse beneath.

To cling to some trace of propriety, Natsume found herself hiding in the alley; clutching the torn fabric in her fist to prevent her breasts from spilling free. Kurumi had run off to find a doctor's though Natsume thought it unnecessary, she had been hurt far worse before, and would have preferred a new shirt.

She began to hear sirens wail through the air. Police she guessed, remembering the uncomfortable inquisition she had her sister had endured before the purple-haired girl had made her challenge. However, she hoped that beneath those loud squadcar cries, was the call of the ambulance she had asked Kurumi to call for Shampoo. It had seemed wise not to be around when the girl awoke, but she had suffered a nasty head blow, and it would have been disgraceful to leave her without sending someone to care.

"Xian Pu!"

The high-pitched cry rang out over the rooftops made her jump, hand falling from her shirt. The sound of billowing fabric came from overhead, but as she looked up all she saw was a flash of white vanishing behind the buildings above. As she craned her neck her hips brushed a pair of steel trashcans, filling the closed alley with a scraping that bounced between the walls like a robotic death cry.

"Xian Pu!" the voice yelled again, growing closer until a figure dropped from the skies above. Natsume gripped her rugbeater tightly and held it defensively in front of her.

The man, boy she amended as he appeared to have a year or two than Natsume herself, was very tall with shining, midnight black hair. His garb identified him bluntly as a martial artist; unlike her own clothes which maintained a shroud of the mundane over the functional His blue trousers were loose except for the small ties at his ankles and he wore plain, soft soled, slippers. The shape of his body was hidden behind the folds of a billowing white tunic, with wide, voluminous sleeves that obscured his hands. His features were dominated by a gigantic pair of glasses, with thick, jam-jar lenses that bent light until all was visible of what lay behind was a swirl of colour. Despite the way his head turned rapidly, switching his from gaze from one wall to another in desperate search, he carried himself with a subtle grace that Natsume knew well and she tensed herself in readiness.

The boy's glare fixed on her and he leant forwards slowly. She thought she could feel the touch of his eyes peering at her from beneath those huge lenses, and she firmed her grip on her weapon's haft.

The boy started, "I'm sorry," he said suddenly and stood upright, folding his hands within his sleeves. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Natsume's eyes widened before she took hold of herself and they narrowed. She would not let her guard down at some polite words. However it would still be rude not to respond.

"Don't apologise, you couldn't have known I was here."

A sudden wind blew through the alley with a faint, hollow croon, and Natsume became aware that she was standing in front of a boy she had never seen with her blouse torn, her cleavage and bra bare to the world, and the mysterious youth.

Her face grew as hot as the sun and she clamped her arms crossed over her chest to hide herself, almost hitting her own face with her beater. She opened her mouth to drive a piece of her mind at the leering pervert in front of her, but the words died in her mouth. He was not looking; those spectacle-hidden eyes had never strayed from her face. A surge of admiration and respect seemed to warm her body through the chill air, but it was marred by the tiny part of her that felt slightly insulted.

She was then aware of the jabbing pain in her chest, beneath her arms that in her shock were pressing tightly against her bruised sternum. The wince and muted hiss escaped before she knew she had formed them, and soft, ghostly footsteps warned her of the boy's approach.

"Are you hurt?" he said, stepping closer. His tall form suddenly seemed giant; consuming the narrow alley. With one hand covering herself it was awkward, but she tried to form a defensive stance, hefting the flat of her rugbeater like a buckler.

He stopped, taking as step back, regarding her weapon with affront. Then his head shifted and suddenly his face flushed with scarlet, though she barely got a change to see before he hurriedly spun on his heel, presenting her with his back which seemed to tremble slightly.

When he turned back to face her he had removed the thick glasses that had obscured his face; which caused Natsume to miss a breath. The boy was surprisingly handsome, behind those ugly glasses. The planes of his face were strong but fine as if carved from soft angles in well-polished but hard marble. However the eyes that glimmered like sapphires possessed such life as to erode any comparison to a statue, and made her think it a vile crime that such eyes were kept shrouded behind enormous, blurring lenses.

"Don't worry," he said softly. "I…I'm…Well I can't see much without my glasses." He eyes fell from her face to the ground and he seemed to shuffle and shift where he stood. "But anyway," he continued after a moment, looking up again but with his gaze now landing about a foot to her left. "Are you hurt?"

"No…no." she replied after the moment it took to find her voice. "It's just a bruise. I forgot about it for a moment and it's still a bit sore."

He nodded with a small smile. "I've done that myself a few times. Must have been a recent fight?"

Natsume blinked then nodded. "Earlier today, how did you know it'd been a battle?"

The boy shrugged. "You're obviously a martial artist, though with a weapon I'm not familiar with, and trust me that is _very strange_. Also, I've done it myself more than once, bumping bruises. There are a lot of martial arts battles in this neighbourhood." His face twisted into a scowl. "Mostly the fault of an arrogant, pervert who used to live nearby and took advantage of young girls and stupid laws before running off like the dog he is." He grumbled under his breath, before he started and trailed off into shaky laughter. "Sorry, I got side-tracked. Things around here are…complicated."

"I've heard," she said slowly, remembering events with the Tendo's and Ranma's curse.

"However, despite all that, there is a Doctor's office nearby. Doctor Saeba is not quite as good as Doctor Tofu was, but he knows what he's about."

"That's not necessary," she said, ignoring the hollow pain under her hands. "I'm just waiting for my sister, to…find me something to…cover myself." The last words were said in a breathless rush, her face felt so hot she was sure that her skin would melt.

"Oh, of course," the boy said, a blush colouring his cheeks. Then he was a blur of motion; one hand pulling open the wide mouth of his left sleeve like a cloth sack as his right delved inside, sinking past his elbow. "I might be able to help," he said as he rummaged in the cloth folds.

She felt a small smile curve her lips at the ridiculous sight of this young man wrestling within his own garments, like he was trying to pull a wild, rambunctious rabbit from the bottom of a vast hat. Her brows were furrowed, until her eyes flew open wide when the boy pulled several feet of heavy chain from the sleeve, and kept on pulling.

Streams of steel links followed, coiling on the alley floor, many ending with spearhead, iron balls and sharp claws. The lengths of braided roped and the strings of yo-yos felt to the ground, entwined with the chains. After several long moments the chains subsided, but was followed by what appeared to be a plastic training potty, shaped like a duck of all things. She giggled when he pulled out a large statuette of Mickey Mousse, and the sound shocked her when it rang in her own ears. She never giggled. Her mirth evaporated and her laughter became a high gasp when he drew out a long, curved sabre with a viscous looking blade, followed by a long handled horse-sword. Both weapons joined the mounting pile with a heavy clash of metal. Finally he pulled a long swathe of white cloth from the sleeve; gripping it with both hands and shaking it lose, revealing a copy of his own white tunic.

"Wear this, I've got enough to spare. You can't spend all day in this alley."

"I couldn't, it'd be too much trouble, and I'm sure my sister won't be long."

The boy shrugged. "Like I said I've got enough of them. Consider it a courtesy between martial artists. Nerima can be rough for new fighters."

"Well…" she began but Natsume knew she could not refuse now and set her rugbeater aside, propping it against the alley wall behind her. With a small smile of thanks she took the large tunic from the boy and threw herself into it, almost losing herself in the sea of white cloth. She almost stuck her head through one of the large sleeves before she found the right hole and looked out into the alley once more.

"Thank you." she said with a bow. "My name is Natsume Te…just Natsume. If you tell me your name and I'll find someway to repay you. I promise."

The boy blinked. "Well could you let me know if you've seen a pink cat with bells in its fur? Or a dazzling, beautiful, radiant young girl with hair the colour of lavender petals?" As he spoke, his eyes became distant and his expression lost as if touched by an angel's light. Natsume felt something sink inside herself.

"I think I've seen a girl like the one you describe." Well not exactly as he described. She doubted anyone could truly appear like that, at least anyone in the real world. "She was near a large apartment building not far from here." She described the building upon which she and the girl had fought, giving the name of the street she had barely noticed as she fled. After a moment, silence thick in the air as she bit her bottom lip she added. "She seemed to be looking at someone on the roof, quite angrily."

His eyes grew wide and the colour drained from his face. "Oh, my darling," he spluttered before launching himself upwards without another word. Moments later she could hear his voice cry across the rooftops like the howl of a lonely wolf."

"Xian Pu!"

She sagged against the wall of the alley once more, this time sinking down until her bottom hit the ground with a bump. The wind whispered between the narrow walls and she drew her knees to her chest, wrapping the folds of her borrowed tunic around herself like a blanket. When Kurumi returned they would try and find somewhere to camp for the night and then look for some food, and maybe a few odd jobs to earn some money. The excitable girl would be disappointed at missing the chance to visit Akane and her family and would no doubt sulk. She would get over it though. Natsume was not in the mood to talk to anyone today, not another martial artist, and especially not one with a rival claim to her school.

The place of heir of the Anything-Goes School, a little-known style founded by a perverted troll, might not seem much to most people, but it was all she and her sister had in this world. It was enough to live for, to fight for, though Natsume hoped the next fight would not be soon.

-----------------

Brand awoke to find himself staring at the familiar sloped ceiling with its scarlet sunburst motive, red rays converging over his heart. Pain then began to shoot through his body as if it were seeping into his flesh and bones from the air around him; his side blazed and his limbs felt heavy like lead. His eyes drifted closed once again, and he tried to picture a flickering flame, searching for a centre, a hub upon which the wheel of his mind turned, the eye of his storming energy, the axle his body moved around. He focussed himself on the fire, basking in its glow and warmth.

Then he realised he truly was warm, hot even. His skin felt slick and clammy beneath the thin sheets that were heavy with sweat. Mumbling with irritation he scrambled and kicked the clinging fabric off.

"Eeeew!"

The sudden cry made him jump, followed by a grimaces as pain lanced through him in protest at the movement.

"Cover your shame," the voice grumbled. "This is a sacred mountain for those seeking enlightenment, not the destination of a gay hiking trip."

Brand turned to the voice, squinting and the blurs of pink, blue and yellow until they resolved into the indignant face of Willow; the skin of her eyelids dark and sagging and her golden hair dishevelled. Then remembered her words and it slowly came upon him that he was naked as he lay in the bed. With a gasp he scrabbled up to cover himself with the damp sheets, but the pain halted him with a hiss and he was forced to continue the task in slow, laboured movements.

"Sorry, Sister I…" he licked his lips, they were dry and cracked. "I was hot."

"Yes we're all hot," the girl grumbled, "but Locke said that it stays on; though he may change his mind now that you're up."

Brand saw that she was not wearing the silken, Phoenix-mantle of her office. Instead she was clad in a faded pair of blue jean and a pale green tee-shirt, stained with a darkened patch were the material had soaked with sweat. Shadows danced across her face which was bathed in flickering, orange light. The light and heat filled the entire room flowing from the blazing fire.

The chamber of the Master of Fire was one of the larger rooms in the dormitories, as befitting his rank, but it was not a large room. One of the rare beds lay beneath the sloped, sunburst ceiling next to his small writing desk and the chair in which his sister now sat. On the other side of the room was a bureau holding the meagre possessions of his own life and beside a chest locked with a trick of fire. However the true mark of the room was the great hearth, five paces wide and half again as tall as he was, yet it was filled with bright, dancing flame.

There was a mat before the earth, made of woven reeds and marked with a circle divided into white and black by a sinuous line. Around the Taijitu, spread the eight trigrams serving as guides for his feet and his soul and he danced his art, synchronising himself with the Greater cycle and feeling it surge through the wild flames.

"You're an idiot, you know that, Brand?"

Brand frowned at the blonde girl from his bed. "I'm sorry, Willow, I didn't quite hear that but I'm sure it was sympathetic."

"I said you are an idiot. Add to that a jerk, and a muscle-brained, testosterone-driven ape." She let out a sound that was half-sigh and half growl, scrubbing a hand through her blonde locks. "There was a split-second I thought you might have done this to restore our honour, my honour after my defeat. Then it passed like any moment of stupidity."

"Willow, that's unfair," he protested angrily but she carried on as if he had never spoken.

"What I can't quite figure out though is; was it your paranoia about Ryoga's intentions or the way you were practically drooling after you heard about Saotome."

"I did fight for your honour. I know Hibiki's type," he spat fighting down a surge of memories that ate at his stomach like acid.

"So it was Ryoga. Is it me you're lying to, or yourself, Brand?" she asked acidly, before her shoulders slumped as she sighed. When she spoke again it was in a soft, almost warm voice. "We know who you are, Brand, what you are. We don't say it because you are one of us, a Master of Bagua Zhang, it would be unseemly for us to speak of such things and less for those who follow us to know."

"You've never been one to stand on propriety, sister," Brand growled. "What are you blithering about?"

"You're a fighter, Brand, not a scholar. Only an idiot would miss the hunger in your eyes when Locke told us the rumours of Ryoga and Saotome fighting Herb and Saffron. You wanted to fight them, not for me or for the Order, for your own sake. If you weren't a prude about duty, you'd be running of to Qinghai to challenge Herb yourself."

"Nonsense," he spat, but it sounded weak to his own ears. He rolled to his side facing the wall, ignoring the pain and discomfort that was little compared to his unease at facing her and her words. After a while he swallowed a hard lump and said, "We are martial artists."

"That's true, but that is but a part of what we are. You know that. Yes, we have the right to make challenges as masters of our art. Yes I took that right and may have even enjoyed it, the heat of it, before I realised I was outmatched. But are we are more than that, much more."

"What's your point, Willow?"

"My point is that what is but a small element of the Art to us is the heart of it for you."

He felt a hand lay gently upon his shoulder and he lowered himself onto his back once again, and his sister was smiling down at him warmly. Her hand moved gripped his and gave it a gentle squeeze as when their hands were much smaller; what seemed another lifetime ago.

"That's who you've always been, even at the orphanage, you we're always scrapping around with the other boys. Especially the ones that picked on me."

"Why are you saying all this, Willow?"

The girl's smile widened and she gave his hand another squeeze. Then she moved like a flash, rapping her knuckles across his forehead. The blow was not hard, chastising not harmful, but his head felt stuffed with needles and her fist made his head ring.

"I'm telling you this so you can learn to be honest, you idiot. If you want to make challenges do it like a martial artist, with respect and honour. Not by thinking with the hairs on your chest before your brains; and definitely not by using me as your excuse."

"Willow, it wasn't an excuse."

Willow placed her hands against the mattress, leaning close until her inky shadow, cast by the harsh light of the fire fell over his face. She seemed to loom despite her smaller size, womanly outrange ringing through her aura like a wailing tone blown through a flute.

"You can't fight every man I talk to and think it's for me. Ryoga was a nice guy, not someone I need protecting from. I don't need protection full stop! I am not Mei Li."

Brand jerked in the bed as if struck, as if stabbed by a sharp blade of rotten memories and had then had salt rubbed into the wound.

"Go away, Willow," he snarled, wrapping himself up in the soggy sheets like a shield.

"That's hardly a nice thing to say, Brand," a thin, raspy voice said accompanied by the creek of the ancient wooden door.

"Come to lecture me as well, Locke," Brand grumbled as he turned to the gnarled old man. Despite his withered appearance, and thin white hair the Master of Lakes glided into the room with a ripple of emerald silk. Cloud followed on his heels, an imposing sentinel in black prowling into the room like the lion that was emblazoned in silver thread on his breast.

Locke chuckled. "I have been lecturing you since you were a boy with mudded knees, Lord Brand, and you have been ignoring me for as long. Why would I bother now?" he hefted a carved wooden box by its handle, and Brand could hear the contents rattle inside with the chink of glass. "I'm here to check on you and, now that you're awake, force some rather revolting tea down your throat."

"You used to do that when I was a boy too," Brand said dryly. "So is it medicine or punishment?"

"You dare to joke!" Cloud bellowed; his voice like a crack of thunder. He surged forwards towards the bed, his face like a thunderhead in a black sky. Even Willow shrank from his advance. However Locke flung out a skinny arm across Cloud's path, almost lost in the voluminous sleeves, but it stopped the larger man like a barrier.

"No, Cloud. It is not his fault. He couldn't have known. No one could," the old man sighed as he set his case on the writing desk. "I'm not even sure about it myself."

"What? What happened?" Brand asked, feeling his head begin to pound.

"You're idiocy nearly got Tyde killed that's what!" Cloud spat.

Brand's voice died in his throat as he tried to speak. He felt his eyes widen as he looked at the two men and his jaw drop open. Cloud was trembling with barely repressed rage that burned like blue flames in his eyes. Locke stared at his case, shaking his head slowly, a sad frown further creasing his wrinkled face.

"I understand your pain, Cloud," Locke said softly, "but we have to keep our heads. This is just an unfortunate circumstance, no one is at fault. I know that hurts, but finding someone to blame wouldn't make things better, and we shouldn't make it our goal."

"Easy for you to say," Cloud said through gritted teeth, but he did seem to relax, by a hair.

"Wait, what happened? What circumstance?" Willow asked, giving voice to the question when Brand could not find his own.

Cloud opened his mouth, but closed it with a click, his jaw tightening before he turned his back to them.

"She had a seizure," Locke said, smoothing the folds of his robes. "Quite severe, its sent her meridians into chaos and set back her recovery weeks if not months. It took place at the same time your and Blitz fought the two strangers on the mountain."

"Dear heaven," Willow breathed. "Is she okay?"

"I've given her something to sleep and hopefully that will keep her from doing anymore harm to herself for now. The impure cells of her blood are the result of weak yin in response to uncontrolled, weak yang flows so both poles must be strengthened and balanced simultaneously; a difficult task at any time."

"Surely it's a coincidence." Brand said, the words weak and breathy. "How could our fight affect her, so badly?"

"Tyde's condition had left her hyper-sensitive to the flow of ki around her, especially in the phase of her affinity," Locke said slowly. His gnarled face looked very old and tired as he rubbed his fingers along the length of his pale, white beard.

"We had been using this to aid her recovery, which is why we moved her to the house by the falls. I hoped that the energy of the rushing waters would work through her affinity synchronise her with the Greater Cycle, and help her restore the balance of her meridians. I did the same for you and Blitz whilst you were unconscious, which is why it is so dreadfully hot in here," the old man glared at the huge, yellow flames in the hearth, tugging on the collar of his robe.

"Unfortunately," he said with a sigh, "she is also sensitive to disturbances and impure-intent in the water phase, such as Jusenkyo's taint."

"This is because of Saotome's curse?" Brand asked with a scowl. He had known those outsiders would be trouble.

"My guess is that both of them are cursed. I doubted the effect would be so severe if it had just been Ranma; and if Hibiki was one of the martial artists at Jusenkyo then it is likely he too is cursed."

Willow made small, choked sound in her throat. Brand glanced over to her body she need to meet his gaze. Instead her she stared at the floor, her green eyes lost in the space above the floor mat, disconnected from the room around her. Brand scowled but turned back towards Locke; there were more important matters to contend with.

"Are you sure the curse could do this?" he asked quickly. "This has never happened before."

"Aoqun's death was filled with rage and the thirst for vengeance, dangerous and destructive drives. For that residue to mark the ki of two powerful martial artists, young and hot-blooded in combat could infect the local ki flows. Like a drop of oil in a mineral spring, it will pass but the water will carry a tinge of the contamination in its taste. It won't affect most, but to someone in Tyde's condition even a mere tinge can be disastrous."

"So what do we do?" Willow asked suddenly, sweeping her bangs from her face. "We've already banished them from the mountain."

"And we're just supposed to wait until they leave!" Cloud snapped turning from the fire. In the harsh orange light he was a god lit by an aura of divine fury, the Jade Emperor preparing to drive evil from his land with the wrath of heaven. "No, we must see that they leave this place, leave Si Chuan immediately."

"Don't be stupid, Cloud," Willow snapped. "What do you want to do, send 'secret police' or soldiers to 'escort' them off the mountain? We're supposed to be peaceful scholars not the Reds."

"I don't care!" Cloud roared. "If I have to I'll go myself and physically throw them down them mountain."

"Cloud, think what you're saying?"

For a moment Cloud's face seemed to crumble, like the clay statue of a mighty warrior cracking and falling apart to reveal another carving, this of a small, frightened young boy. He turned back to the fire and Brand thought he could she the man's broad shoulder trembling.

"I know what I'm saying, Locke, and I hate myself for it," he whispered in a voice so soft that Brand had to strain to hear it. "But I can't lose her. I don't care what it does to me, or what I have to do, I can't lose her."

To be continued…

**Glossary**

**Meridian **– A pathway through which ki flows to different parts of the body. There are six yang channels and six yin channels which maintain the balance of ki and nourish the organs and extremities.

**Shichen 'large hour'** – A two hour period of associated with a specific time used by Chinese astrologers to split the day into twelve parts. Each shichen is named after an animal of the Chinese zodiac.

**Prime –** Amazon rank; second in command of the Amazon armies in times of war.

**Scroll of Voices -** A record of quotes of past Amazon's judged to be great, including warriors, healers and teachers. Required reading for Amazon children.

**Right of Redress –** In Amazon culture it is a right to accuse and demand punishment or reparation for personal or familial slights.

AN: I must apologise to all of the people out there for the years delay in writing and updating this story. I was in the final year of my degree and decided that I had to concentrate fully on my studies. Perhaps I should have given some warning, but I'm not a fan of writing author notes when you want chapters, but maybe that was wrong. Again I'm sorry.

Thanks to Rob for all his help and Brain for letting me bother him.


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